


The Lacquered Box

by MotherOfCups



Series: The Iris Oracle [5]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Drafts, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Memories, Multi, One-Shots, Smut, convenient narrative device
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2020-12-13 16:24:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 77,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21000662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherOfCups/pseuds/MotherOfCups
Summary: One-shots, fluff, smut, memories, and the ish left on the Oracle cutting room floor.In which Iris and Julian court. (Iris x Julian)In which Asra grieves. (Asra x (Iris x Julian))In which Iris and Asra attend their first masquerade.In which Asra and Iris reconnect. (Iris x Asra)In which Asra and Iris do the thing in Muriel's bed. (Iris x Asra)In which Julian and Asra blow off steam. (Julian x Asra)In which Julian falls in love. (Julian x Iris)In which Asra returns.In which Asra brings Iris a gift from his travels. (Iris x Asra)In which Julian jumps the gun. (Iris x Julian)In which Julian and Iris meet.In which Asra and Iris relax in Nopal. (Iris x Asra)In which Asra acquiesces. (Asra x Julian)In which Asra and Iris switch bodies. (Iris x Asra)In which Julian offers Iris some comfort. (Iris x Julian)In which Lazuli explores the Summer Palace.In which Iris and Julian rest. (Iris x Julian)





	1. Ripped Pink Lace

**Author's Note:**

> If you dig any of this, please check my Arcana novelization The Iris Oracle, which all of this is based off of. You're great. 
> 
> As always, content warnings are posted in the notes before chapters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Iris and Julian court.
> 
> Iris x Julian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Baby Charles - I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor (Arctic Monkeys cover) **
> 
> _ CW: rough sex, drunk sex _

Iris was in Nadia’s room, the two of them just polishing off a working lunch of white wine, bowtie pasta with spring vegetables, and green salad spiked with the first sweet violets, the color of which made Iris’s heart tighten, her stomach flip. Nadia heaved a sigh of frustration from her desk, leaning on her elbows and circling the pads of her fingertips on both her temples; the stacks and stacks of correspondence and requests she was responding to was nearly as tall as her forearm. 

Iris chuckled slightly, the gorgeous, handbound leather notebook Nadia gifted her splayed out in front of her on the bed, her pen paused on the page. Iris used it for getting her thoughts earthside, but as of late, nothing came to her. She was too distracted, she could admit. The last three weeks had been strange. “You’ll pop a blood vessel trying to make those disappear, Nadi.” 

Nadi’s narrowed eyes flitted to Iris’s, even as they glinted gratefully. “I should have you respond to these. You are much better with words, Iris.” 

Iris sat up straighter and cleared her throat delicately, her fingertips grazing her collarbone, a perfect mime of Nadia. “Thank you so much for your letter, Sir Germanius, Ambassador to the court of the Hyberian king. Yes, I do remember the time you drunkenly came onto me at my birthday party with my husband present. No, I will not extend to you a gift of 30,000 pentacles, nor will I absolve your gambling debts in my city. Kindly cut off your right hand so you may never write me again, and perhaps cut off your dick as well, so you may never procreate.” 

Nadia laughed once, loudly, from her diaphragm, then pressed her lips together against her smile. “But I forget you lack the diplomacy.” There was a gentle knock on the door; Nadia nodded, and Iris magicked it open with a lazy flick of her wrist. 

It was a courier; Nadia groaned, and extended her hand, the other flying back to her temples, head cradled between her thumb and her middle fingers, but the young courier blushed. 

“A-actually, milady, it’s for...” She stammered, fiddling with a short powder-blue curl as she held the letter out to Iris. 

Iris raised an eyebrow, leaning forward on the bed and accepting the scroll from the courier; she curtsied hurriedly and rushed out of the room as Iris broke the carefully wax-sealed ribbon and unfurled the little note. 

Sloping, hurried, impossible script; a few simple, heated lines: 

_Iris – I’ve been thinking of you all day, darling. Let's escape from the palace tonight... I know a little place you’ll love. Wear your dancing shoes. - j _

Iris felt the color rise to her cheeks suddenly, her heart pounding in her chest. Since Julian’s birthday three weeks ago, she and him had been sleeping together, sneaking into each other’s rooms in the dead of night, leaving before the light of morning. 

They weren’t ashamed of each other, quite the opposite – Julian’s exquisite brand of seduction was showering Iris with delicious praise, telling her every tiny thing he loved about her body, the noises she made, the things she did, the way she called his name into the darkness. But Iris was hesitant, uncertain, to let him into her life fully, and Julian – Iris wasn’t sure why he followed her lead, leaving shortly after she pretended to drift to sleep in his arms, but not before pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. The only reason she could think of – the only reason that made sense – was that it meant something to him, not just sex, and he was waiting, waiting for her to catch up. 

And then everything changed. He invited her out to dinner, just like this, an unassuming scroll delivered via courier to her desk in the library as she studied the Romance names for bones, for muscle families: a date, a magical date full of laughter and adventure through the city; a date that ended with her back pressed to the glass of the half-moon windows of his sparse Southside loft while Julian knelt between her legs and used his silver tongue for more than sparkling conversation; a date that ended in her spending the night in his bed, curled up beside him, finally able to name the quiet feeling creeping up in her – comfort. It felt right; it felt safe. Julian felt like coming home after a long day, her favorite chair, a cup of tea, a good novel, Sitara purring on the headrest behind her neck.

“Iris.” Nadia’s voice, tinged bright with amused confusion, one dark, arched eyebrow raised, brought Iris back to the land of the lucid. “You’re as red as the Pontifex. What is it?” 

“Nothing.” Iris rolled up the scroll hastily, ready to snap it across the ether to the safety of her rooms, but Nadia was too quick, leaning over her desk with a catlike movement and plucking it out of Iris’s fumbling hands. 

“Nadi, wait – !” Iris cried, too late – Nadia’s eyes had already flown over the short note, her triumphant gaze snapping to Iris’s wide eyes, her smirk absolutely devilish. 

“I knew it.” She crooned as she let Iris indignantly snatched the note back. “You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?” 

Iris felt the heat rise to her neck, averting her gaze from Nadia’s probing eyes. “Don’t be silly, Nadi. He’s just a friend. Our colleague.” 

Nadia’s smirk widened. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you when we practice together, Iris. He can’t keep his eyes off of you, like he’s tasted the ambrosia of the Gods and nothing else will satisfy him.” 

Iris had no response, her lips only parting softly around a gasp; Nadia laughed now, fully, sonorously, throwing her head back. “And you’re so busy sneaking glances at him that you don’t notice.” 

“Is it that obvious?” Iris murmured, mortified. Nadia chuckled. 

“The two of you have been making puppy eyes at each other since you disappeared together at his birthday party.” She stood now, brushing her long hair back off her shoulders. “Besides – I have eyes and ears all over the palace, my friend. You know this. I hear of my favorites keeping strange hours, coming and going from each other’s rooms like cats in the night.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “And neither of you are very quiet lovers. Did you think you were being discreet?” 

“By the Arcana, Nadi.” Iris moaned, burying her head in her hands. “The staff can hear us?” 

Nadia’s smile was genuine now, fond, as her hand fell on Iris’s shoulder. “They have heard much worse, I can assure you. Besides, you have a more pressing problem.” 

Iris furrowed her eyebrows, her face a moue of confusion; Nadia raised both eyebrows, her imperious smirk returning. “You have nothing to wear dancing.” She purred.

** *** **

Iris was restless, waiting in her rooms in Nadia’s wing. When she sat, she fidgeted, thumbs worrying the lace around her hips, her collarbones. When she stood, she paced, checking her reflection in the full-length mirror, smoothing down the cascading ruffles that framed her curves.

It was just as Iris was considering if she should undo her hair when a gentle knock rose from the door, a set of syncopated triplets; Iris’s heart fluttered as she rushed to the door, then took a deep breath, steadying herself before she slid it open on its gilded tracks. 

“Iris, darling, I’m so sorry I was held up, Lucio required my attention –” Julian stopped abruptly, sculpted lips parted as he inhaled softly, his warm gray eyes sliding over her in awe. 

Iris felt the color rising on her cheeks as she held out her hands, spun around once for him. “I dressed for dancing. Is it too much? Should I change?” 

As was Nadia’s way, she had made her afternoon project dressing Iris to the nines for her date, despite Iris’s insistence that they were probably going somewhere on the Southside, where she would certainly draw unwanted attention. Nadia ignored her, draping cast-off dress after cast-off dress from her personal closet over Iris’s shoulders, checking the colors, the fits, the lengths, even having Iris dance with her to see how it moved on her. After dress after dress after dress, Nadia was finally satisfied, Iris mollified; she privately marveled at her friend’s exquisite taste and generosity as the Countess had it rushed to her seamstress to be hemmed for Iris’s height in time to be worn after dinner. 

And what a marvel it was, a floor-length dress of dusky blush knit lace, a long V-shaped ruffle framing Iris’s collarbone and dipping down into her decolletage, tiers and tiers of cascading lace ruffles starting at Iris’s hips, ending at her ankles. Nadia had even provided her with accessories, a wide embossed leather belt that nipped her waist in, polished black dancing shoes with a pointed toe, a velvet choker dripping with freshwater pearls, matching teardrop pearl earrings. Nadia had left Iris to her own devices for her hair and makeup – she opted to get her long blonde hair out of the way, tucked back behind her neck in a chignon, her flyaways smoothed down with beeswax, and only a little perfecting powder, a touch of the crushed rose-petal lipstick she was fond of. 

Julian blushed, moonstruck, extending his hand to Iris as he swallowed softly. What Iris didn’t know, what she couldn’t know, was that the soft, dusky pink she wore was the same exact color of her lips after she had been kissed and kissed and kissed, swollen and glistening and rosy; the same color of the flush that painted her cheeks, her chest, as she orgasmed in his arms; the same color of her warm, wet cunt when she was spread out on his bed, inviting him into her with dark, lidded eyes. It was the color his dreams of her were tinged in, a color that sent his pulse fluttering in his wrists, his neck, made his cock twitch to attention in the seat of his pants.

“You look ravishing, Iris.” He managed, his smile wide, genuine. “Maybe I’m the one that should change.” 

Iris laughed as she took his hand. “No, you look lovely. Besides, if we don’t leave now, we’ll never get there on time.” Julian snorted a little, but tentatively smoothed down the collar of his white shirt, starched and ironed – splayed across his broad chest were richly embroidered flowers with ink-black stems, peonies of red and blush pink, only a few shades lighter than Iris’s dress. His slim-leg black pants were pressed, his shiny black shoes polished, everything a noticeable step up from his normally haphazardly wrinkled, ripped, stained clothing. He’d dressed up for her, Iris realized, the back of her neck growing warm.

“Well, erm, I wouldn’t worry about ‘on time’ where we’re going, darling.” He replied. “This is more of an all-hours joint.” 

“Then I’m really overdressed.” Iris chuckled, even as she blushed, as Julian helped her into her gray woolen cloak, as he swung his own black cloak over his shoulders.

“That just means all eyes will be on you tonight.” He retorted with a sly wink, ushering her out of the room. “I better watch you like a hawk, lest you get snatched up by a more handsome man.” 

“More handsome than you? Never.” Iris teased as they descended the wide, curved staircase from Nadia’s wing – Iris stepped left, toward the carriage circle, but Julian gently twined his hand around her waist and urged her right, towards the gardens. 

She shot him a confused look as he lead her away, glancing once over his shoulder at the guards, standing at attention at the foot of the staircase. When they were well out of earshot, he leaned down to her, his long neck bowed to whisper in her ear, “Last time Lucio caught wind of me sneaking to the Southside, he tried to have my favorite haunt shut down.” 

Iris wheeled on him in shock. “You’re kidding.” 

“I wish I was.” Julian muttered darkly as they passed through the wide glass-paned doors to the veranda, his palm slipping from her waist to her hand as he steadied her on the smooth marble steps. “Like he didn’t used to sneak of to the Southside brothels all the time before he fell ill. Now he hates the idea of anyone having fun without him. Luckily, the owner kept his ducks in a row, though they roughed him up a little in the cooler. They couldn’t charge him with anything.” 

“That’s so...possessive.” Iris whispered, sharply, her eyes fiery. “You deserve to have a life outside of the palace, even if you work here. He doesn’t own you; he certainly shouldn’t be jailing the innocent to keep you here.” 

Julian sighed, running a hand through his still-messy waves absentmindedly. “One of the many benefits of being a favorite of the Count, I suppose.” They passed through the manicured arch that signaled the beginning of the hedge maze, and Julian grasped her hand tighter. “Can you run in those shoes?” 

Iris snorted. “That kind of night, huh?” 

Julian grinned; in the moonlight, his freckled porcelain skin nearly glowed, his gorgeous gray eyes gleaming. “If there’s one thing life has taught me, Iris, it’s always be ready to run.”

Suddenly she was off her feet, her arms around Julian’s neck as he swept her into a bridal carry. “Julian!” She shrieked, her laughter ricocheting through the arches of the maze as he whipped them through turn after turn after turn, until they were in a part of the gardens Iris didn’t recognize, a large clearing abloom with wildflowers, opening up to a narrow but well-worn path that hugged a lemonstone wall about twice Iris’s height. 

Julian let her down in front of a rusted old gate that groaned open with a sturdy shove of his shoulder, to a field that was blanketed in swaying grasses; the gate clanged shut loudly behind them as Julian’s hand wound through Iris’s. 

“Careful. This field’s lousy with black burdock this time of year. Wouldn’t want a rogue burr to ruin your pretty dress.” He murmured in her ear as they set off, edging closer to the narrow creek that snaked through the field, treading carefully down the narrow but firm creekbed. 

Iris gathered her cloak closer around her neck. “It’s not my dress. It’s Nadi’s.” She admitted, her voice low. 

Julian let out a soft hum. “I thought it might be. So she knows?” 

Iris sighed quietly. “She intercepted your note. Apparently we’ve been, ah, overheard by the palace staff.” 

Julian’s eyes went wide, and his cheeks colored, but after a moment, he laughed, running his long fingers through his auburn hair again. “What do you mean, overheard?” 

“Nadi said specifically that ‘neither of us are very quiet lovers.’” 

Julian barked laughing. “She’s not wrong.” 

Iris bit her lip. “Does it bother you that she knows?” 

Julian’s eyes alighted on her. “Why would it?” 

“We, um.” Iris stumbled on how to continue. “You always leave afterward. I wasn’t sure if...” 

Julian squeezed her hand. “I don’t really sleep through the night, Iris. I toss and turn when I try. Most nights I stay up working or reading – if I’m lucky, I doze off in my chair. I...I didn’t want to keep you from sleep, too.” The color rose back to his cheeks, dusky in the light of the full moon. “You seem pretty keen to leave most nights, yourself. I wanted to give you your space.” 

Iris’s eyes were warm, soft, as she sidled closer to him. “I liked staying at your place last time. You seemed to sleep just fine.” 

Julian’s smirk widened to a smile. “You wore me out.” 

“Is that what it takes to get you to sleep through the night?” Iris’s eyes flashed wickedly. 

“That’s a hypothesis. Shall we test it out?” Julian’s eyebrows waggled. 

They laughed, their voices melodious as the sound dissipated through the field. When they arrived at the swollen aqueducts, it was only a few short minutes until they were carefully descending the damp stairs to the South Side docks, twisting through the narrow wooden alleys that bordered the winding, murmuring canals. They stopped in front of the box office to a ramshackle little theater, the bricks of which were painted with frescoes of dramatic love scenes, a dashing blonde man serenading a raven-haired maiden, a Seong woman in a qipao embraced from behind by a man in a changshan, two men reaching for each other wearing armor from opposite sides of a war. 

Julian knocked, another set of syncopated triplets, on the glass of the box office. The little window opened just enough for Julian to stoop, to murmur: “Your name isn’t Rio.” 

The window slammed shut, making Iris startle; then the doors flew open, flooding the little sidewalk with roaring noise, jarring, energetic music, shouting, laughter. A muscular, barrel-chested bouncer in a waistcoat, his long ginger hair pulled up into a bun, waved them in, extending an arm to them; it took Iris a moment, Julian’s hands ghosting deftly over her shoulders, handing her cloak over to the man, for her to realize they were at their destination. 

The freckled bouncer gave her the once-over, his gaze lingering on her blush-clad bust, before glancing surreptitiously at Julian, inclining his chin in approval. Iris considered looking into him, mostly out of morbid curiosity, but Julian slipped him a pentacle for their cloaks and lead Iris away, his hand steepled on her back. They crossed the smoky, dimly lit anteroom, full of drunk dancers getting off their feet on the couches and tables that dotted the shabbily opulent reception area. 

And then they ducked through black velvet curtains to the theater proper; Iris gasped softly. All seating had been whisked away, creating tiers and tiers of smooth, scuffed dancefloor; on the stage was a six piece brass band with three percussionists and a thick woman plucking a violone taller than she was, all flaking a pixie of a singer dressed in a red dress that seemed to be made entirely of tassels, each the length of Iris’s legs, her head crowned in wild brown ringlets, her lips painted with carmine rouge. The room was boiling with wild dancers, the music energetic and rhythmic as the singer shimmied up to the amplophone, her voice raw and raspy and low. 

“What do you think, Iris?” Julian asked, brows raised, grin wide. 

“I-I think I need a drink first.” She stammered, still taking it all in. Julian chuckled. 

“Excellent idea.” He murmured, his palm flattening against her back, keeping her close as they wove around the edges of the throng to the crowded bar – Julian easily waved down a bartender, who seemed to recognize him, winking at him with a scarred eyelid. In less than a minute, he waved them to the bar; laid out were three shots of firewater, and two gleaming, amber cocktails. Their evocative color made Iris’s heart twinge. 

The burly, scarred bartender leaned over the bar and clapped Julian on the back. “Good t’see you, Juli, it’s been too long. Lucy finally let you out of his sights long enough for you to slip away?” 

Julian grinned roguishly, grabbing the shot. “I’m still pretty slippery, it seems.” 

The bartender’s gaze slid to Iris, looking her up and down before smirking. “Slippery enough to bring the Countess’s pet with you. How’d you get tangled up with this one, your Foolishness?” 

Iris merely raised an eyebrow, hoping not to betray her surprise at being recognized. “How do you know he didn’t get tangled up with me?” She asked coolly as she picked up the shot and clinked it to theirs, skulling it smoothly.

The bartender laughed, slamming the glass down, Julian’s not far behind, a percussive jazz eighth. “A slippery fool for a slippery fool. I like it.” He extended a burly hand to Iris, also scarred. “The name’s Dara Zornitsa. I own the Rowdy Raven. We bartend here when Sabine’s in town.” 

Iris took his hand and shook it once. “Iris Keshet. I own the Indigo Child in the Market District.” 

“Oh? I heard the owner high-tailed it out of here a few months ago. It made quite a stir in the Southside. There are few places in the city you can get reliable herbs and potions without cutting off your foot to pay for it.” 

Iris flushed, reminded again, again. “My partner did leave, but the shop is mine. I’ve been busy at the palace with my duties and my apprenticeship, so I haven’t been able to keep regular hours.” Iris felt Julian’s hand on her shoulder, thumb soothingly tracing circles against the lace; his skin was warm, his touch delicate but familiar, and a softness spread through Iris. “But I’m usually there Sunday afternoons, even if the shop isn’t open. If you need something, send word. I’ll see if I can’t source it for you.” 

Dara smiled. “Mighty kind of ya, luv. Might take you up on it.” He threw her another wink. “Unfortunately, I can’t chat – had a bartender quit on me tonight, and we’re shortstaffed. But do try to keep that one out of trouble, will ya?” He inclined his chin to Julian. 

Iris laughed, grabbing the drink from the bar. “No promises, Dara.” She called back, Julian grinning as they slipped into the crowd. 

Iris sipped her drink delicately as Julian lead, winding them through the rowdy crowd to one of the unoccupied tables that dotted the periphery of the theater. It was slow going; he kept getting recognized, pulled into hugs and effusive kisses on his hollow cheeks; a loud group of musicians, very drunk, who tried to get Julian to do another shot with them, one of them serenading him, extremely off-key; a flamboyant winemaker and his partner, a handsome, ink-eyed bottler, who were both suggestively familiar with him; even one of Julian’s old patients approached him, tentatively laying a hand on the swell of his bicep, Julian’s eyes flying wide when he recognized them, smiling broadly, asking after her family. They all cowed a little when their eyes fell on Iris, some recognizing her, some simply stunned by her finery, her beauty; she felt very out of place and a little like Julian’s pretty, young shadow, when someone grabbed her elbow. 

Iris jerked her elbow back instinctually, making contact with a quick, catlike palm, a teasing laugh echoing in her ears; Iris’s eyes flew wide as she wheeled around, face-to-face with a gap-toothed woman with a shaved head, wearing a short ruched dress of red, black, and yellow tie-dye. “Iris, hun, dat you? You right disappeared on me for a minute.” Aster laughed, her Hispaniole accent thick as ever; she outstretched her gloved arms, embracing Iris in a delirious hug. 

Iris kissed her friend’s cheek, lingering in her arms for only a moment. “I’ve been working. I’m sorry I haven’t stopped by. How is the stall doing?” 

Aster shook her head, holding Iris out at arm’s length. “I tought I was goin’ t’ outgrow it, but now most people don’t have de cash for sweets. Too busy buying medicine, protections, or getting de fuck out of dodge.” She immediately realized her mistake, tightening her grip on Iris’s shoulders. “I’ll skin him if he ever shows his face in Vesuvia again. Leavin’ you like dat, in de middle of de night.” 

Iris said nothing, only taking a sip of her drink, mostly to hide her face. Aster clucked softly, smoothing down one of Iris’s ruffles. “You look good though, girl. Seems you’re bein’ taken care of.” Her smile curled, eyes flitting devilishly to Julian behind her, chatting away with a gaggle of little actresses now, his hand still on Iris’s back. 

Iris flushed. “Aster, meet Julian, my...my mentor. I’m apprenticing under him at the palace, studying medicine and healing magics.” Aster chuffed as Julian blinked to attention, giving him the once-over. “Julian, this is my oldest friend, Aster Slick. She owns a stall in the Southside market, selling sweets and baked goods. She makes a mean sesame bread.” 

“A pleasure.” Julian murmured; he attempted to shuffle his drink to his other hand, but Aster, with a smirk, snatched it away, draining what was left in two greedy gulps. 

“Whose knob’d’ya polish to get two drinks in dis joint? De line for te bar is murder.” Aster asked with a lift of her brow, a grimace as the firewater burned, handing the glass back to him. 

“Ah...I know one of the bartenders...barrel-chested fellow, scar through his nose and eyelid, goes by Dara.” Julian pointed him out to her at the bar. “Tell him Julian sent you. No – no knob polishing required.” 

Aster chuckled. “Where’s de fun in dat?” Her gaze bounced from Iris to Julian, noting his hand on her back, the way he buffeted her from the crush of the crowd, the easy way Iris leaned into him to hear more clearly. “Oh, and Juli? Make her cry and I’ll make sure dey never find your body.” She blew a kiss at Iris, throwing Julian a wink like she hadn’t just threatened his life, and flounced away. 

Julian laughed once, a quick exhale, his brow quirked. “I didn’t know you knew people in the Southside.” 

Iris giggled, taking the final sip of her drink. “I had a life outside of court, you know.” She took the empty glass from his hand and placed both glasses on one of the rickety tables, before offering her hand to Julian as the music changed, slowing, pulsing with strutting violone, sultry vocals. “May I have this dance?” 

Julian’s eyes shifted, a look Iris couldn’t quite decipher; still, he took her hand, lifting it to his lips for a kiss before guiding her gently into his arms, one hand steepled on her shoulder, the other wrapped around her waist. They sank together into the beat, Iris’s hips swaying, her skirt swishing around her ankles, Julian following her lead. 

“What do you mean, had?” Julian asked her, his lips brushing against her ear; the drums rumbled in, gentle as distant thunder. 

Iris’s hand on his chest snaked slowly up to his neck, and she laid her forehead against his collarbone. “Court takes up all my time. Like I told Dara...I barely make it back to the shop once a week.” 

“It’s not always like this.” Julian murmured to her as the brass came in, muted and buzzy, mournful. “I’ve worked in courts before Vesuvia. Crisis...it changes everything. But…” he paused a moment. “You deserve to have a life outside of the palace, even if you work there.” 

Iris huffed a little, even as she smiled. “Where have I heard that before?” 

Julian’s posture changed, ever so slightly, his shoulders bowing as if to wrap around Iris protectively, his hand on her shoulder sliding to the small of her back. “It’s true, Iris. Even in crisis, life goes on. If you don’t pay attention, you miss it.”

Iris bit her lip. “It hurts too much, Julian.” She exhaled heavily. “To go back. Everything...reminds me of...” 

Julian hummed. “I’m sorry, Iris. I didn’t bring you here to remind you of him.” 

“I know.” Iris murmured; the song reached its climax, the singer wailing, the piano slinking through jazzy runs, the brass blaring, the percussion and bass riding steady. Julian smiled softly, then spun Iris out on his arm; she twirled, her skirts fanning out, and when he pulled her back, her back was pressed to his chest, his hips firm against the arch of her spine.

“Let’s just dance for a little while.” Julian murmured into her ear, his breath hot, his lips just grazing her hair; Iris felt her heart flutter as his hand slid down her waist to her hip. “No thinking, no reminders of the past. Just you, me...the music.” 

“And everyone else here.” Iris laughed; even then, someone else pushed into her, jostling her closer into Julian’s arms. 

“They can watch.”

And they danced; when the music sped up, they shimmied, they swung, they twirled and strutted and laughed; when the music slowed, Julian drew her close and they swayed to the beat. The dancefloor was warm, and humid, and soon they were both glistening with sweat, but it didn’t matter – Iris quite liked the way the gleam highlighted the graceful, muscular arch of Julian’s neck, the hollow dip of his clavicle that peeked out of his unbuttoned collar, the way it made the shaggy, unruly hair at the nape of his neck curl. Julian quite liked the way the fluted space between her breastbone caught the low, warm light, drawing his eyes down to the comely swell of her bust; he adored the way her upper lip glistened, and he ached to kiss her, to kiss her over and over and over.

Neither of them knew how much time had passed when they stumbled off the dancefloor, panting and breathless, towards the bar for a re-up; Iris barely registered that Aster was now behind the bar with Dara, a shaker in each hand, her gap-toothed smile wide as she caught his gaze out of the corner of her eye. She slid two bubbly juniper-liquor concoctions and two more shots of firewater towards Iris and Julian with a sly, knowing wink, her tongue caught teasingly between her lips.

They were just finishing their shots when they were accosted by the group of drunken musicians, who insisted, insisted, they do another shot with them before they peeled out for the night. By the time Iris finished hers, she felt quite tipsy, tottering the tiniest bit on her heels, her cheeks burning hot. Julian was flushed too, and laughing as he good-byed with his friends, just as the music changed; a lively, sultry samba rhythm, a heady bassline, insistent brass. 

Iris couldn’t help but move, rolling her hips to the beat, slinking side to side as she sipped her drink; Julian’s heated gaze flitted over her, the flowing movement of her waist, the rising and cresting swells of her hips, her breasts – Iris pretended not to notice, even as she felt the heat on her neck, her chest, creep down, down, to her belly. The singer’s low, growling voice crooned: _“Stop making those eyes at me and I’ll stop making these eyes at you...”_

“The dancefloor’s calling you.” Julian murmured, his flushed expression a little raffish, a little enraptured; he reached out to touch her, to snake his hand up the slinky length of her spine, but he hesitated, his flush rising, as if he wasn’t certain he was allowed to touch her. 

The little fire flared in Iris’s core; she leaned into him, guiding his hand to her hip. “Then we better answer, shouldn’t we?” She cooed.

Julian only made a soft noise of assent in her ear, a sound that reminded Iris achingly of the last time they slept together, when she pushed him back into his bed and climbed on top of him; he quickly tossed back the last of his drink and Iris drained hers, discarding the glasses somewhere before Iris led him back to the floor, his blush mortifyingly bright, his lower lip caught in his teeth. 

Iris wrapped her arms around his neck, and his hands found her hips, grasping a little harder than before, emboldened by drink, pressing his pelvis to hers; they danced, their hips slipping against each others, Julian lifting her, dipping her, twirling her, to the intoxicating rhythm. He was an extremely skilled dancer, able to both lead and to follow. When Iris’s hips circled and pulsed to the beat, he fell back, letting her guide his movements, meeting her in kind; when she relented control to him, he took it, guiding her into skillful lifts, deft footwork, silken touches of her bare neck, her tapered back, her full hips. 

When the song reached its peak, a wild crescendo of brass, a rattle of ankedje, maraxixi, Julian pulled her to him and swung her around his body, his strong arms steady as he dipped her to the left, then the right, then between his legs, his eyes sparkling with impish mischief and something else, something that made Iris blush, avert her eyes, even as he righted her, planting her on her feet and then dipping her low in his arms, pressing a heated kiss to her lips as the music reached its frantic end. 

Iris sighed against his lips, her heart pounding as what felt like his entire body pressed against hers, her arched back, her hips in his hands; she felt her insides blazing, the heat between her legs liquifying at the thought of him pressing those same hips into his, his hands all over her body, her dress hastily thrown aside…

“Julian...” She breathed into his ear. “We should go.” 

He lifted her upright, her chest still pressed to his. “Go?” He asked, hazily, his face as flushed as hers. She didn’t need to dip into him to see that he was thinking of the same thing she was, her body, her pleasure, her face as she…

“Go.” She answered, burying her face drunkenly in his neck. “Is...is your place nearby?” 

“Two blocks.” He whispered into her ear, his breath wild, almost panting. “Not far.” 

“Then let’s get out of here.” She hoped her voice would sound cool, even, unaffected, but it sounded more like a whine, a plea, with her lips pressed against the heat, the firm, of his skin. 

Julian’s hand tightened around hers as he glanced over his shoulder; then they were weaving through the thinning crowd, cutting through the throng to an unassuming wooden door near the stage. Julian pressed it open and lead Iris through it, revealing a crowded backstage, littered with props and costumes on rolling racks. They wound carefully through the cluttered space, down a hall lit only with low red light and out a heavy metal door to an alleyway; Iris realized, with a shudder, they’d left their cloaks at the check as the cool night air settled over her, her skin prickling with goosebumps. 

There was a gentle sound, a heady, heated groan that echoed through the narrow, dirty alleyway; just a few paces down from Iris and Julian was a couple, a couple intertwined so scandalously that Iris had to suppress a gasp. A tall, muscular man, his swarthy complexion flushed, his dark brown hair mussed as he trailed a little down the brick wall his strong back was pressed against, his knees buckling with pleasure; between his legs was a rail-thin woman, her face pressed into the apex of his legs, tears of satisfaction beading in her eyes as she took him all the way into her mouth. His large hands lazily massaged her scalp, her shaven head giving him nothing to hold onto. 

Julian clapped a hand over his mouth as Iris clutched to his shirt; it was their friends, Dara and Aster. Silently, the two lovers’ wide eyes meeting, they slipped out of the alley into a nearby sidestreet; only when they were out of earshot did Julian let out a raucous round of laughter, his mouth wide as he threw his head back. Iris couldn’t help but laugh with him, pressing her shoulder into his arm, as they stumbled through the winding alleyways. 

And then they were at the steps, the tall steps in the half-flooded alley that lead up to Julian’s loft; Iris felt her cheeks coloring as Julian lead her up the steep brick steps to the steel door, quickly pressing the code into the keypad. The heavy door swung open, and the two of them stumbled into the landing. 

Julian made to go up the first flight of steps, but Iris caught him by the back of his shirt, pulling him back into her. He stumbled on his long legs, spinning and falling backwards, his back against the wall; Iris pinned him, her hands planted above his shoulders, her hips pressed to his. She paused, her neck craned up towards him, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed, and watched the pupils of Julian’s eyes dilate, darken, as he stooped towards her, pressing his lips into hers heatedly, his tongue slipping boldly between her lips. 

After a moment, a beautiful, luxurious, heated moment of their tongues dancing, Iris pulled away, her teeth grazing the long line of his neck as her drunken fingers fumbled with the belt that circled his waist, the metal of his buckle clinking uselessly between her fingers as she pried the mechanism apart. Then his pants were loose around his hips, falling around his spread knees as Iris knelt, emboldened by her friend’s brazen lust. She wasn’t surprised to find he was already hard, his cock pink and long in her hand as she wrapped her palm around him; she earned a delightful shudder as her tongue flicked across his head, teasing the easy seam and the delicious little slit, already leaking with salty, musky precum. 

Julian moaned softly as Iris’s lips encased him, his fingertips dragging over her gelled hair as she took him deeper, taking the head between her lips and teasing him with the silky, warm length of her tongue. Her lips sunk wetly down to the swatch of thick, dark pubic hair as she took him all the way in, suppressing her gag reflex as the head of his cock hit the back of her throat, smoothed against the hot, wet muscle there and curved downwards; Julian groaned softly, his lips parted as she took him deeper, deeper. 

Then she was sucking, her tongue, her cheeks slipping against his length as she bobbed against him, her hand slipping between his thighs to tease his scrotum, twirling his testes between her fingers as Julian arched his back and grunted, his hands smoothing down Iris’s neck to her shoulders, holding her there, all chivalry discarded. Iris relished him like this, whimpering under her ministrations, his sweet willpower depleted as he thrust gently into her mouth, his hands gripping her shoulders, savoring every, every touch, every lick, every moan. 

Then he was pulling her up, drawing her from her knees to his lips as he kissed, kissed her, his hands wrapping around her shoulders, her waist; she groaned softly as his hand slipped down the low back of her dress to her waist, the sloping crest of her hips. 

“What would please you, Iris?” He whispered desperately into her ear. “I’ll do anything...” His voice was so soft, so low, so submissive, that Iris wanted to melt, to swoon. 

But she leaned into him, her breath ragged in her throat, her tongue circling his ear before she sighed softly, “I want you to ravish me, Julian.” 

Julian’s body quivered with a full-body shudder as he wrapped his arms around Iris’s waist, her shoulders, pulling her closer to his embrace. “Darling, you’re sure?” He murmured, his lips against her temple. “I...I don’t know if I’ll be able to control myself...” 

“That’s what I want.” Iris moaned in return. “You always treat me so sweetly, so carefully. Don’t hold back this time; you won’t hurt me.” She pressed her lips into his neck. “I promise I’ll tell you if it’s too much. Please?” She hadn’t planned on begging, on pleading, but her voice was helpless, weak and formless in her throat as she clutched to Julian’s elbows, urging him to cling to her. 

With a little groan, a flush of Julian’s hollow cheeks, she felt his strong hands slip around her hips and lift her up into his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist as he toed off his shoes and kicked off his pants before ascended the stairs, kissing her the entire way. Only when they’d rounded the landing of his flat, did he let her down, pinning her to the bricked wall next to the fireplace, one elegant hand encircling her wrist, holding her gently in place. 

His forehead was pressed to hers, their chests pressed together, as Julian roughly pushed up her dress until she was exposed to him, her blooming, blushing sex, her legs sliding open for him as his hand slipped down, down, between her thighs; he touched her, traced the lushness, the plushness of her labia as his cheeks darkened in the low light of the loft. 

“You’re so wet…” He groaned against her neck, his long fingers slipping between her lips, pressing experimentally, questioningly, against her sex as she wrapped one of her legs around his hips, pulling him closer. 

“You...” Iris breathed into his ear. “You did it...” She flushed and moaned low and soft as Julian’s fingertips dragged against her swollen clitoris, drawing a low whimper from her as he started circling slowly, slowly. 

“You...you don’t have to...” Iris whimpered as pleasure wracked her hips, making her twitch around Julian’s fingers, his lips parting as he pressed kisses into to her neck, her chest, her clavicle. “Please...I’m ready...” 

To her surprise, Julian groaned, no, growled softly, his teeth scraping against her neck. He gripped her shoulders and flipped her, her chest now pillowed against the brick as he lifted her dress over her hips, her ass; his hand traced her cleft, pressing against her clit, then her sex, then her anus, as he fished a condom from his shirt pocket. 

“Iris...” He murmured in her ear, one of his hand snaking up her still clothed belly, her ribs, her breasts, as the other pulled her hips out, making her arch her back, pressing her chest against the brick. “You’re sure?” His hot tip, clad in a condom, pressed against her, his breath hot, sweet, desperate in her ear; she nodded wildly, pressing her hips back into his, whimpering only a little when his hand grasped her hip, guiding her onto him. 

She gasped when he breached her, even though she felt so wet, so ready for him; she whimpered as he pressed in, as he leaned into her, boxing her into the wall, relinquishing his grip on her to lean on his elbow. He paused, his lips against her temple, as she lengthened around him, making him moan softly. “Iris...” He groaned as he thrusted into her, his strong, chiseled hips smacking into her ass. “Darling, Iris, darling...” 

She arched her back even more against him as his free hand snaked around her hip, working her clit as he thrust wildly, unevenly, a little drunkenly, into her; his breath was hot in her ear as he continued to moan her name, teasing her towards her edge with each stroke of his fingers. She pressed her cheek against the rough brick, her hands helplessly scraping against the wall, her hips braced against his as he rutted into her, his voice low and wild, his flush exquisite, the way he furrowed his brows in concentration, bit his lips in focus, trying to make her come as he chased his own pleasure. 

And Iris loved it, being used like this, she hadn’t, she hadn’t had anyone take her this roughly since…. She whined as he thrust harder, his hips slapping into hers now, forcing the air from her lungs, fucking desperate little sounds out of her. 

Then he was gripping her hips, pulling her away from the wall, pushing her knees first into one of the warm leather chairs by the fireplace, her back arched liquidly, beautifully, as she gripped the backrest. Julian grabbed the lace dress pooled around her waist and pulled it roughly down from her breasts, so roughly that Iris thought she heard ripping, but she didn’t care; Julian was cupping one of her breasts now, expertly rolling the hardened nipple in his hand as he sank home again with a groan, pounding just as wildly into her. 

In this position, Iris could feel Julian riding against her most delicate spot, her sweetest pleasure, and going so so deep that it sent the heat in her belly flaring with each hot, hard stroke of his cock. She cried out loudly, screwing her eyes shut as Julian whined in return through bitten lips, his edge already reached, threatening to undo him, even as he desperately focused on Iris, the clumsy, erratic pulse of her sex around his, the lewd beauty of her state of fucked-out undress, the way her back spasmed, her chest heaved with pleasure. 

“Jul – Julian...” Iris moaned loudly, pressing her forehead into the chair, that same soft rose pink painting her full cheeks, her long neck, the small of her back as she came loudly, powerfully, her full, gorgeous hips bucking against his; with a series of quiet grunts, planting his knee firmly on the armchair next to Iris’s quivering legs, Julian came too, his thrusts growing slow and long and liquid as his orgasm shook through him, his long fingers quaking as they brushed down the shapely expanse of Iris’s back, the nip of her waist. 

Iris slumped against the chair with a little laugh, something between a giggle and an exhausted whimper. With a contented sigh, Julian arched over her, his lips brushing against the vertebrae of her spine. 

“You did so good...” Iris whispered, her head turning towards her lover. “So good, Julian...”

He responded by gathering her in his arms and lifted her easily into a bridal carry, crossing the room and depositing her softly into his low bed, framed one of the half-moon windows, his lips against hers as he arched over her. “Do you want more?” 

“More?” Iris whimpered, her legs still quaking as she spread them for him, planting her feet in the mussed, bleached sheets. “I don’t need more, Julian.” 

His voice was so low, so warm, as he dropped his tongue onto the fullness of her breasts, licking a long, languid line from her collarbone to her sternum. “I didn’t ask if you needed more.” He murmured against her skin. “I have more to give. I want to give it all to you.” 

Iris could only hum softly as Julian’s hand ghosted over her sex, glistening and puffy and pink still from their lovemaking, teasing her with languid strokes of his fingertips over her swollen clitoris, sensitive and electric. His tongue laved over her skin, the tender swells of her breasts, the same-pink peaks of her nipples, the little valley between her ribs; then he was slipping two of his long, long fingers inside of her, his thumb rubbing her clitoris as his fingers curled again against the bud of nerves that bloomed in her with each touch. 

She writhed under him, arching her back, whimpering, clawing her fingernails against his shoulderblades, drawing his chest into hers as their mouths crushed against each other in a hot kiss, lips parted, tongues searching. Iris moaned into his mouth as he increased his pace for a moment, then withdrew his fingers; he shrugged his shirt and undershirt off, baring himself fully to her, before reaching for the bookcase that served as a bedside table and grabbing another condom from a metal trinket box. He snapped off the condom he had spent and replaced it with a fresh one, tossing the used one aside into the wastebasket by his desk.

Iris whined softly, watching the moonlight slice across Julian’s chest, carving deep shadows across his svelte, muscular stomach, his defined chest, the shapely slopes of his arms as he leaned forward over Iris, brushing his lips against her jaw as his fingers slipped back into her. “Oh, darling...” He moaned softly as Iris arched under his touch, bliss pulsing through her hips, her belly. “I love feeling you like this...” 

Iris could only sigh in response, turning towards him, searching for his lips – they kissed and kissed, their tongues swimming and their teeth knocking. Julian was moving much slower now, thumb circling her clit, his fingertips curling inside her, drawing out her orgasm – when Iris finally came again, it was powerful and sweet, her hands clutched desperately in his hair, her voice high and shuddering in his ear. Julian cooed softly as she gripped him over and over and over again, her slick surging into his palm, the crooks of his fingers; he slowed his pace, the circling of his thumb growing lazy and languid as Iris relaxed back into the sheets, flushed in her elation. 

With the softest groan, Julian pulled his fingers away from Iris and licked her ecstasy from his skin, humming with quiet delight at her taste, bright and delicate and human. Head still swimming from her orgasm, Iris reached down and grasped his hips, guiding him to press into her, his cock hot against her so-sensitive sex. 

He ground his hips against hers slowly, slowly, a satisfied smirk painting his sharp features; then he was slipping inside her, leaning back on his knees, guiding Iris’s ankles up over his shoulders, her legs just barely the length of his long, lean torso. 

Julian took his time with her; their rhythm was slow and hot now, Julian relishing the ways Iris contorted under him, the way her cheeks darkened and she called out his name, propping herself up on her elbows, her hands fisted in the sheets, her neck long and flung back. He wasn’t much more composed, grunting and groaning as the heat in his core seared unbearably; he planted kisses into her ankles, her calves, his hands gripping the soft give of her thighs, swimming down to play with her bobbing breasts as they moved together. 

Iris’s mind was blank from everything but her and Julian, the way he touched her, the sound of his voice as he whispered her name into the night, the way he looked at her, his shapely lips parted, his stormy eyes framed by his dark, fluttering lashes; when Iris’s orgasm crashed through her again, he watched her with something so familiar, so gut-wrenching, heart-rending to Iris, before he leaned down to her, kissing her passionately as he came again with a series of soft, low grunts. 

“Damn...” Iris whimpered as he collapsed into her chest, her arms around his shoulders, her hands in his hair; she giggled as her legs quivered. “I’m shaking, Julian.” 

Julian shushed her softly, his forehead pressed into her neck, his breath spinning back to him in almost-painful huffs, his lungs burning. “You wore me out, darling.” 

“Maybe you’ll sleep through the night, then.” Iris teased him with a little chuckle, then whimpered as Julian pulled out of her, lazily discarding the condom before shifting onto his side, stretching luxuriously against the white sheets. 

“Only if you sleep next to me.” Julian murmured, one hand snaking under the pillows, the moonlight catching the pale curve of his broad shoulders, the defined shape of his bicep draped against his chest. “Don’t leave tonight, darling. Please...stay with me.” 

Iris felt the flush creep back into her cheeks; how had they gotten here, the lovemaking, the cuddling, the easy intimacy, hardly even needing to communicate their needs anymore, a little part of her wondered, even as her lips parted around her answer. “I wasn’t planning on leaving.” 

The way her heart surged at his little smile, the genuine, rare one – not a smirk, not a grin, all his teeth, the arched eyebrow, but the part of his lips, the little curl, the way his face relaxed as he dropped his head into the pillow, regarding her – it surprised her, shocking her from her post-coital haze. “I’ll make it worth your while in the morning.” Julian promised, reaching for her, the back of his finger tracing the soft slope of her jaw.

Iris chuckled softly as she sat up in the bed, stretching her legs, carefully leaning away from his touch, her heart pounding, and not in a good way – her fingers traced the bunched lace still around her waist before she pulled it up over her head. Sure enough, the lace around the neckline was ripped. 

Iris bit her lip, stood. “I...I’m just going to go wash up.” 

Julian nodded, eyelids flitting closed, his voice already hazy with half-sleep. “I’ll wait for you.” 

Iris let the dress fall to the floor from her shaking hands as she crossed the room, a little hastier than she intended; her heart was in her throat as she closed the door to the water closet behind her, latching so loudly she startled. Then the tears fell, silent, frustrated, violent whispers that shook in her chest as she sat heavily on the toilet, pulling the pins out of her chignon, shaking her long hair over her shoulders, raking out the tangles with her fingers. 

This motion, her nails dragging gently against her scalp, loosening the gel, fingers teasing through her slinky waves, brought up a memory like the uncontrollable rise of sadness in her throat; her, naked, skin damp, seated on the four-poster bed in her flat, one leg crooked in front of her, the other flung over the edge of the bed. She was in front of Asra, his legs crossed as he gently brushed her tangled, soaking wet hair, one hand on her shoulder, softly, absently kneading the swell of muscle. He tenderly brushed the hair over her shoulder, away from the nape of her neck so he could lay a warm, lingering kiss there, inhaling the scent of her just-bathed skin…

Three months. It had been three months since he’d left, three months she’d avoided everything that reminded her of him, the shop, the apartment they’d shared, the scents of the market, her favorite pumpkin bread from Selasi that Asra would bring her for breakfast on the mornings she slept in. Three months since she’d woken up in their shared bed, disoriented, barely remembering the night that had passed, his feeble excuses, the way they’d made love, rough, angry, then exquisite, bittersweet – the last thing Iris remembered was his back in the doorframe, gold light illuminating the contours of his face, casting deep shadows over his regal brow, his full lips, his soulful eyes, broken, as he allowed himself one last look back at her before he slipped into the night like a too-good dream. 

A surge of anger flared in Iris’s chest as she leaned forward, her hands on her knees, her forehead resting on tops of her thighs as she took a deep breath, as the tears dropped hotly on her skin. He had no right to look so forlorn, she fumed, forcing her rage down into a little, packed, crystal, hard behind her heart. He chose to leave. He left her, not the other way around. 

Iris was startled from her spiral, the panic rising in her throat, by a soft knock. “Iris?” Julian’s voice was low, husky, sleepy. “Everything okay?” 

“Sorry, I – ” Iris gasped softly, wiping her tears away. “I think I fell asleep on the toilet.” 

Julian was quiet a moment; Iris could almost see the peak of his brows as they met over his eyes, the shadows his frown cast across his pointed features. “It sounded like you were crying.” He paused, voice catching softly. “Did I do something…?” 

“No – no, Julian, I – ” Iris’s couldn’t keep the waver out of her voice, or choke back the sob as the tears fell in earnest now. “It’s not you, it’s...it...”

“I – I’m coming in...” Julian stammered, the latch clicking on the door. Iris scrambled to cover herself, clutching her arms across her chest – an absolutely absurd gesture, she realized as she blushed, as she sniffed, shying away from his gaze as he stepped through the door, his brows upturned with worry. 

He stood over her for a moment, his lean body tense like a spring as he watched her shoulders shake, as she broke down; then he was on his knees in front of her, his hands gently pressed to the swell of her shoulders, leaning towards her, hesitating. “Iris...it’s okay...” He murmured, even if his expression betrayed him, uncertainty contorting his handsome face. 

Iris shook her head violently, her panic overwhelming now. “I can’t do this, Julian, I can’t, I can’t just...just forget...” 

A quiet inhale, a light in his soft gray eyes; Julian understood now. “Would it...would it be okay if held you?” He finally murmured, his thumbs moving absently over the soft skin of her arms; he kept his distance, though Iris could tell he was restraining himself from enveloping her in his arms, from pressing his lips to her ear and fighting her fear away with whispers, with promises. 

After a moment of her heart hammering with panic, she nodded. “Yes, just...breathe with me...” 

Iris didn’t know how long he stayed with her, her forehead against his shoulder, his deep, musky scent in her nose, his broad, cool hand, almost spanning her back, slowly, gently, smoothing up and down her spine. He matched her breath, centering her, seven counts in, seven counts out. When her breathing evened, he whispered to her, soft little phrases in a beautiful language she could hardly fathom: “_Sve će biti u redu...sve će biti u redu, draga..._”

When Iris’s tears slowed, her face buried in his damp neck, she finally wrapped her arm around him, pulling him into her embrace. “I’m sorry, Julian.” She whispered, shuddering, her voice still small. “This isn’t easy for me.” 

Julian sighed softly, pressing his cheek against the tumbling waves of her blonde hair. “It’s okay.” He assured her. “This...is new to me, too.” He nudged his lips over her cheekbone, not quite a kiss, not quite not. “Take your time, _draga._” His cool hand wrapped around her waist. “I’ll be here.” 

Iris didn’t respond, her eyelids now fluttering threateningly with sleep. She mumbled something, nonsense, into Julian’s ear, and he chuckled softly, the rumble in his chest buzzing pleasantly against Iris’s as he lifted her into his arms for the fourth time that night, carrying her to the bed, laying her down so gently, so tenderly. The last thing she remembered was curling up with her head on his chest as he kissed her forehead, murmured goodnight, as the curtains of sleep dropped around her, lulled by the rise and fall of his chest, the soft springiness of his chest hair, the human warmth of his scent, his hand on her back, still tracing gently, soothingly, up and down her spine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC: I love this scene so much, but it was just too freaking long for the Oracle, and I couldn't bear to abandon it completely. Enjoy. _


	2. The Sodalite Pendant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Asra grieves.
> 
> (Iris x Julian x Asra)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Big Thief - Not **
> 
> _CW: MCD referenced _

Sweat was so rarely used in magic, Asra thought absently – yet, it was a most human medium: seen more often than blood, felt more often than tears, slicking the skin more than any kind of sexual fluid. He was sweating now, on this sleepless midsummer night, the dark heat enveloping him in its quiet, heavy breath as he laid in the queen-sized bed in the bay window, the curtains wrenched open in the hopes that some reassuring breeze would come and soothe his feverish skin. 

He couldn’t bear the touch of anything tonight, not the purple silk sheets, not Faust’s cool scales against his skin, not a stitch of clothing except for the sodalite pendant on the leather lanyard around his neck. This, he traced tenderly with his thumb, resisting, his hand shaking – he arched, pressing his nose into the pillow, but that, that was a mistake. 

It still smelled of her, of dew-drenched irises and roses and peonies, lingering orange from their bathwaters, the cream of her musk, her sweat, her sex, the human scent of hair; Asra moaned, a different darkness enveloping him as he sank further into the pillow, fighting back tears he didn’t want, didn’t need, when all he wanted was the release of sleep...but even that, that was plagued with dreams, dreams of her, her face and features blurred, her voice like it was made of mist – 

He balled his hands into fists, one in the sheets, the other around the soft lanyard around his neck. Even with his eyes clenched closed, he could see the quiet light that wisped across his eyes like ghosts, and he couldn’t help himself – he touched the teardrop of sodalite against his breastbone, lilac magic ekeing from his fingers as the memory swirled through him – 

This same bed, the light long as evening descended, red and rosy and romantic; the sheets and blankets and pillows were stripped away from the bed, only the sheet that swaddled the mattress, the same purple silk. But the body that sweated in it was pale and lithe and arching, writhing, struggling against the silken ropes that bound his wrists to the posts of the headboard, his wingspan so long it stretched easily across the bed. Julian whimpered, summer sweat beading against his brow as he attempted to buck his hips upward, but he was met with a soft slap across his cheek. 

“You said you’d be good for me.” Iris murmured, the smirk snaking wider across her full cheeks as she paused; Julian whimpered, stilling his hips, even though Asra could feel every nerve in his body begging for Iris to move, the warm, wet silk of her sex gripping his sheathed cock, her thighs framing his chest as she leaned back, her hands planted on his legs, her back arched, her bare breasts blooming against her ribs. 

“I – I’m sorry...I’ll be good –” Julian whined, his neck rolling back, his eyes fluttering closed. “Please, just… just don’t stop, _draga_….”

Iris said nothing, just sinking her lip between her teeth as she started moving again, grinding her hips against Julian’s in slow, easy movements – he moaned, so loudly, so licentiously, as he fought every instinct in his body to move with her, to guide her to her release. Asra felt a slick, human warmth encircle his cock, his own oiled fingers dragging out his pleasure, the same rhythm as the roll of Iris’s hips, the pillowing of the little swells that swathed her waist, the quiet grunts in her beautiful voice that colored Asra’s cheeks, that surged through Julian like an unbearable, searing heat. 

He keened and opened one eye, watching Iris move against him; he loved her like this, on top of him and in control, using him for her ecstasy, and her ecstasy alone – her cries slowly, slowly rising, her head thrown back and her rosy lips, swollen and soft with kisses, parted as her sweet breath spun, shallow and desperate, across them. She was wild now, her movements growing frenetic, erratic, as she panted – she was close, he knew, the way her thighs quivered and she leaned forward a little, just enough that Julian surged forward before he could stop himself, Asra’s lips parting around a moan as Julian latched onto a pebbled nipple. 

Iris chuckled darkly, her fingers fisted in his hair as quick as lightning, pulling his neck long and away, drawing a whine from him. “If you must use your pretty mouth, darling...” She huffed, never slowing her movements. “Tell me how fucking good I look.” 

Asra felt a tear of desperation slip down his cheek as Julian’s core seized, his fists tightening and straining against the headboard as he began to babble, language after language spilling from his mouth: “Darling, _ljubavi moja, dušo moja,_ you’re a goddess, my goddess,_ vous êtes magnifique, rydych chi'n brydferth,_ don’t stop, please don’t stop, _molim te draga moja_...”

And Asra barely heard the reedy whisper of own voice, _punten, sayang abdi, punten,_ over Iris’s final, quivering groan, her voice music as she cried through her orgasm. She slowed her hips, bone-deep pleasure shaking through her, her wet, tight heat surging, pulsing around Julian as his voice lowered to a soft murmur, “Iris, oh Iris, yes _draga_...” 

Asra slowed his hand, panting, as Julian leaned forward now and kissed her, the corners of her mouth as she gasped quietly, her vision spinning back to her. “Good boy, you did so good, darling, Ilya…lasting for me…” Iris panted, her shaking fingers magicking away Julian’s restraints; immediately, his hands snaked around her waist, her back, dissolving the distance between them as he enveloped her in his strong arms, peppered her face with warm, slow kisses. 

“Let me...” He crooned, punctuated by a slow roll of his hips, one hand gliding down the slick pane of Iris’s back to her ass; she and Asra both moaned as he smoothed through her, the flat of his pubis dragging against her most sensitive nerves. 

Iris threaded her hands through Julian’s hair, tugging gently as he set his pace, drawing his neck long, long. She brushed her lips against the flushed skin there, letting her teeth slip teasingly against him before purring, “As long as you don’t forget who’s in control here.” She sank her mouth on the muscular dip above his clavicle, and he and Asra both groaned. 

“I...I...I didn’t...” Julian’s mouth fell open in bliss as Iris sucked a bruise into his pale skin, marking him; even though his movements were long and slow, luxurious, Asra’s became frantic as he groped at himself, the rhythmic thumping smack of skin on wet skin ricocheting through the still flat. It was coming, the part he ached for, the part he dreamed of…

Iris released Julian with a wet pop, laved her tongue over the mark, ringed with the tiny pocks of her teeth; then she looked up at Julian with her eyes dusky, her lips glistening and puffy, eyelashes fluttering – he craned down to kiss her, hand threading through her long hair, caressing her scalp. They lingered for a moment, moving together, and then Julian broke away, the tiniest smirk curling against his sharp features. 

“Maybe I should call you mama...so you know...I didn’t forget?” He teased, voice breathy, nudging his lips against hers, their foreheads pressed together, never breaking their pace. 

Iris’s eyes flew open for a moment, and then, then – all the blood in Asra’s body simmered, shimmered, as the skin around Iris’s eyes crinkled, her full lips spread into a wide, wide smile, her glistening tongue, the two dimples on each cheek, the tidy strength of her white, even teeth. He thought he would break, the joy, the ecstasy to see the sparkle in her eye, the inescapable smoke-heavy emptiness that filled his lungs, slowed and dulled his nerves, the unending crawl of his skin, to know, to know – and then the sound of her laughter, not the tinkling of tiny bells but the thunder of cathedrals, loud and powerful enough to fell every belltower, the throwing back of her head, mussed hair cascading down her back, the shake of her stomach as she laughed, laughed, and Asra wanted to die. 

“Whatever makes you happy, darling.” She purred, now nuzzling into Julian’s neck, her breath hot and quick against Julian’s pale, freckled skin, rolling her hips against his, her lips brushing against his skin. 

Asra groaned, his movements becoming even more frantic, desperate, as Julian wordlessly guided Iris to turn around on his lap, her back pressed to his chest. One hand swam to her chest, tracing her ribs, her sensitive sides, fondling the swell of her breast, the tight nipple; his other hand, the fingers so impossibly long, against Iris’s hip, the dimpled skin, the pale pink stretch marks that ringed her belly, crowned the softness that Asra craved to touch, oh, the way Julian was touching her, the flat of his palm resting against the warm silk of her crease, his other hand lavishing her body with attention, every part he could touch – oh, Asra would give anything to touch – his fingertips rolling over her glistening clit, drawing quivering, gasping moans from her, her mouth wide, her lips trembling as she threw her head back against his shoulder, as he leaned down and whispered to her, half jokingly, half desperately, “Oh, mama, _draga, mama, da, da_...”

When Iris came again, her whole body bucking against Julian’s fingers, his embrace, her voice high and tight and sweet as she gripped Julian’s arms with a fierceness that Asra knew, missed, craved… when her hot wetness burst forth over Julian’s legs like a burst damn, his thighs soaked, the delighted flush and the whimpering moan that accompanied it before his thrusts slowed, erratic, halting, as he dragged his teeth against Iris’s ear – Asra hardly noticed, hardly noticed, that his own body cinched and bucked under his own touch, the bare skin of his stomach suddenly warm and sticky with ribbon after pearly ribbon of his release. He slowed his hand and relented his grip, and Iris’s face turned towards Julian’s, every detail in full view as Julian’s head rolled on his neck and he looked at her, a dopey smile on his face. 

“Darling...” He murmured, his hand still on her hip, still gripping the swell of sweetness there. “My darling...” Iris arched up to kiss him, their eyes fluttering closed as Julian guided her down to the bed, his body coiled around hers, his broad back a shield around hers as they settled together, Julian still seated in her warmth, both of them still quivering with aftershock. Iris pulled away from their kiss, her gaze heavy, dusky, as Asra memorized every color of her eyes, the rosy flush that painted her cheekbones, the love, the love, that radiated from her as she brushed an errant wave from his brow. 

“I love you, Ilya.” She whispered, and their lips brushed as Julian let the tenderest kisses whisper across her jaw, her cheek, her brow, before settling his cheek against her long hair, his lips against her ear. 

“I love you, too, Iris.” Asra whispered, as the memory receded from him, leaving him alone in the unanswering heat, skin tacky with sweat, with cum, cheeks wet with tears. He hesitated, his fingers hovering over his sternum, heart pounding, heart aching, before he traced the stone gently again, cool under his fingertips, sinking into the shimmering light of another memory that wasn’t his to miss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC:_   
_A primer:_   

> 
>   * _Nivenese__ \- Croatian_
>   * _Alba__ \- Welsh_
>   * _Franc__ \- French_
>   * _Nuru__ \- Sundanese___
> 
> _Thanks for reading, loves._


	3. The Felt Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twenty pages of tooth-rotting pre-relationship fluff, then Lucio ruins everything.
> 
> Or, Asra is Howl Jenkins for Halloween, you’re welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Frou Frou - Only Got One **
> 
> _ CW: Sexual harassment, unwanted touching, and some violence. _

The Market district was alive with raucous patrons as Iris wove her way through the crowd, carefully clutching her basket to her breast, where even the bravest of thieves wouldn’t dare let their fingers wander. She’d made a great show of grabbing the last little pickpocket, no older than 12, by the ear, berating him loudly for all to hear even as she slipped three pents into his palm before she pushed him roughly away and onto his ass, eyes wide. Iris had flounced away haughtily, her nose wrinkled, her lips stretched taut with disapproval, even as she had winked at him. 

She was 16, exactly today; her blonde hair was a little longer, now tickling the space between her shoulderblades when she bathed in the Vesuvian bathhouses with Opal, dusting her shoulders with light waves when it dried. Her face had filled out, softer now that she was eating regularly, Opal and Asra’s adventurous and worldly cooking, rich curries and noodle dishes and luscious stews that stuck to her ribs, clung to her stomach and hips; but still, her cheekbones were more prominent than ever, wide and curved, drawing the gaze of everyone who looked at her to her wide, downturned eyes, enchanting and indigo blue, and her full, rosebud lips, their perpetual, petulant pout. 

She was pretty; she turned heads wherever she went, from the Market to the Southside to the waterfronts in Goldgrave, delivering her aunt’s potions and poultices and charms to the dockworkers, the merchants, the temple maidens. She knew it, in some way, ever wary of the way men looked at out of the corners of their eyes; but she did not yet feel it, often pressing her hands to her full cheeks when she was alone, examining her every pore in the mirror, pinching the softness that cloaked her, her belly, her thighs, her ass. Her breasts had swelled, tender, filling out the cups of her black embroidered bodice, full against the opaque lace of her white dress, its modest Victorian neckline, its poet sleeves, its handkerchief hem, just skimming the ankles of her pointed-toe boots, but she was ever embarrassed by her curves, careful to cover the cleavage that often peeked out of low necklines, to cross her arms when talking to shopkeeps, hoping to hide her bust as she bartered.

“Iris!” A voice cut through the sea of noise, shockingly loud but honey-sweet to Iris’s ears; with a grin, she pressed through the crowd to the little shop by the tea-sellers, the scent of green tea spiked with fresh spearmint and sugar slowly becoming one of Iris’s favorite smells. The baker’s shop was occupied almost entirely by a massive clay kiln fastened with a cast-iron door, piles and piles of all different types of bread in wicker baskets woven in the Nuru style, cyan blue and indigo and white dyes swirling through the dried desert grass. 

The voice that had called to her belonged to the baker, Selasi, a middle-aged man with kind amber eyes and an Alban carnival barker’s voice, smiling raffishly at Iris while he manned his stall alone, kneading dough and serving customers and pulling loaves from the wood-stoked fire with a long, tongue-shaped paddle. When Iris first met him nearly a year ago, Asra had stooped down and whispered in her ear in his low, smooth voice that when Selasi was apprenticed with another local baker in the Heart district and Asra was a homeless youth, barely scraping by, Selasi would give him the day-old loaves and pastries. Iris had warmed to him immediately, remembering the kindly shopkeepers who had fed her in Albyon; when he was absolutely swamped in the mornings and Iris or Asra could spare a hand, they helped him man his shop.

“When are you going to take a wife, Selasi?” Iris teased him, slipping behind his storefront with practiced ease, dropping her basket and cobalt-blue cloak behind the little shelf full of goods and shooing him away from the crowds to the kiln, addressing his customers with a smile. Selasi patted her shoulder gratefully, a smirk snaking across his face as he opened the cast-iron door and pulled out a fresh batch of bread. 

Iris’s nostrils filled with a wholly unfamiliar aroma, though she recognized the scents immediately; cinnamon, allspice, and clove, but overwhelmingly pumpkin. She hummed appreciatively at the scent, then clapped her hand over her mouth, blushing as she wrapped up a set of eight dinner rolls for a very haggard mother. 

Selasi chuckled, his playful amber gaze rolling over her. “I don’t know, Iris. Are you available?” He joked, taking the fan leaning against the clay-packed wall and fanning the fresh loaves, now gently steaming, filling the little shop with their scent. “We wouldn’t be rich, but your belly would always be full.” Iris colored even darker, turning to him indignantly. 

“You’d have to go through Opal first, Selasi.” She said with a smirk, playfully tossing a handful of dusting flour at him as she bustled over again to his wares, now unshelving a long Francish loaf for a young couple who hardly payed any attention to her, too busy mooning over each other as she handed them the bread and took the single pentacle from one of the lovebirds outstretched hands. 

“I am getting up there in years, but I think I still have it in me to handle two wives.” Selasi deadpanned, now pressing one of the still-steaming loaves into her hands. “Happy birthday, Iris. My treat. Let me know what you think; it’s a new recipe I’m trying.” 

“How…?” Iris began, her cheeks still ruddy as she absentmindedly looped a wave behind her ear; Selasi smiled brightly before turning to his next customer. 

“Asra told me.” He said with a wink. “Hard to forget, being the same day as the first night of the masquerade.” 

Iris chewed on her lip softly, lost in thought; then she smiled at Selasi, a grin that still whispered of the child hiding behind her woman’s curves. “Thank you, Selasi.” 

Selasi turned to her, eyes warm. “Any time, Iris.” He crooned, before turning away from her, now addressing a man already in his masquerade finery, asking about meat pies. 

Iris slipped away with a flourish of fastening her cloak around her shoulders, her bag slung over her shoulder, the little warm bundle of bread in her arms as she dashed the last several hundred yards through the thick crowd to her Aunt’s shop. The magician’s crest was swinging in the chilly January breeze, the light still blazing as she bounded up the stairs two at a time, flinging the door open, her cheeks bright with the cold. 

The shop was empty, surprisingly: no customers, no one behind the glass-topped counter, not even Faust or Sitara curled up on the pillow left there specifically for them. Iris felt her brows furrow, her lips turn down in a pout, as she called out into the shop: “Hello?” 

The curtain fluttered back, a slender, beige hand framing a wide-eyed face, her Aunt Opal’s cerulean-blue eyes, her mouse-brown hair, streaked through with silver at her temples. “Iris! You’re back earlier than we expected.” She exclaimed, her already high voice rising. “Did you get everything?” 

Iris smirked, setting down the basket on the counter, the experimental bread next to it. “I did, though I’m still not sure why you sent me out for barley wheat, abalone shells, and rosewater?” 

Another head popped out of the curtain, pulling it back fully with sturdy, ringed amber fingers; Iris’s heart fluttered a little as Asra’s violet eyes fell to her, surveying up and down. His impish smile spread fully across his features, the dimples that normally hid under his cheeks like a secret when he was deep in focus, learning a new spell or helping a customer, peeking out as if they were just for Iris. “I told you she’d figure it out.” He simpered, his eyes sparkling, as if with some private joke, before flitting to Opal’s. “Everything’s ready, anyway.” 

Opal fussed as the curtains flew open with a screech, wringing her hands as Sitara circled her ankles unhelpfully, arching her sleek, silky body against Opal’s bare calves, meowing impatiently. “Yes, but the cake hasn’t arrived yet, and dinner’s not ready, and I had wanted the sun to go down so we could light candles...” 

Asra laughed, sweetly, indulgently, his hand falling on Opal’s shoulder. “We’ll eat when dinner’s ready. The cake will get here when it gets here. Don’t make the poor girl wait any longer.” 

Opal sighed heavily, her hands falling frustratedly at her side. “You’re right, you’re right, starchild.” She smiled up adoringly at Asra, cupping his cheek softly as the curtain fell silently behind them; in Asra’s hands were two plainly wrapped packages, one much smaller than the other, perched carefully on the larger’s lumpy surface. “She’s no more patient than you are.” 

“Hey, now.” Asra said softly, smirking playfully, before his gaze drifted back to Iris’s. With a small smile, the corners of his beautiful lips just turning, he handed both presents to hers. “Happy birthday, Iris.” He murmured, his voice low and sweet and restrained.

Iris took the first from his hands, setting the second on the counter as she tugged at the looped twine that held the package together. It tumbled apart with a delicate flourish, a puff of silvery, glittery smoke whispering up from the bow, clearing quickly to reveal a felted masquerade mask of velvety, golden brown; dotted across the forehead were white spots ringed with dark henna-brown. Parallel to the point where Iris’s eyebrows would arch were rosettes of the softest dawn pink, ringed with dried flowers, baby’s breath and heather and beebalm, looping up to a pair of pointed, tapered ears: a doe. 

Iris’s brows furrowed in earnest as she turned the carefully-wrought mask over in her hands, the inky silk ribbons, black and shimmering, that would tie it to her neck, the delicate edging, braided silver and gold thread framing the entire mask in an even, intricate blanket stitch. “What is this?” She muttered, barely able to conceal the edge of hope in her voice. 

“Open the other one.” Asra urged her, nudging the larger package into her hands. Iris’s hands trembled a little as she untied the twine, another little puff of smoke, this time tiny rainbows spiraling wildly as the paper peeled away like onion skins, revealing a dress that fluttered down of its own volition in front of Iris, exactly her proportions, lacy gauze and velvet and pearls, matching embroidered slippers. 

Iris shook her head softly, disbelieving. “We can’t afford this, I said I didn’t want to go...” Her wide eyes lifted to Opal’s, then to Asra’s, who was grinning ear-to-ear. 

“You’ll be the most beautiful girl at the masquerade, Iris.” He murmured softly, eyes sparkling. 

Iris gasped, turning wildly now to Opal. “Wait...can I…?” 

Opal laughed. “I made your dress, Iris. Asra made your mask. He’s agreed to chaperone you.” Her eyes were warm as she made a shooing gesture at Iris, guiding her to the staircase. “Now go try your dress on, I’ve been working on it for a month now and I’d like to at least see it on you before Asra whisks you away!” 

And then Iris was scampering up the stairs, her arms laden with her goodies, only just registering the softness in Asra’s eyes as he watched her ascend the stairs, Opal’s hand falling gently on the back of his shoulder, her smile tender, and knowing. 

When Iris rounded into her and Opal’s little flat, she wasted no time shedding her layers, her embroidered bodice and white lace dress and her boots, shaking her hair out over her shoulders before slipping the dress over her head, the slippers over her toes. She adjusted it against her new curves, uncertain, before turning to the full-length mirror. 

She stared, her indigo eyes wide, disbelieving; the girl, no, the young woman, who stared back at her, was hardly recognizable. She gently ran her fingers over the ruched sweetheart neckline of her gown, supple, golden-brown velvet overlaid with gauze cloqué, embroidered with massive, peachy-gold flowers. Its trumpet cut and opulent flare, which started well above her knees, emphasized the budding swell of her hips, a narrow belt exaggerating the nip of her waist. She carefully slipped on her gloves, the same floral gauze, studded with tiny freshwater pearls, no doubt gathered by Asra from the underground caverns that honeycombed the forests south of Vesuvia.

Iris frowned, touching her face. Somehow, she seemed so plain, so featureless, disappearing against the gorgeous gown she wore; and her hair, her hair, now hanging limply below her shoulders, her waves unraveling with the day’s humidity. She looked like a child playing dress-up with her mother’s lovely things. How could Asra ever...

The mask. Iris traced it reverently with a gloved finger before holding it up to her face. It was perfectly proportioned, framing her eyes so her cheekbones protruded, enlarging her eyes without making them seem buggy, alien. She could imagine Asra bent over it at the reading table long after she’d gone to bed, only one little candle or orb of orange light to guide him as he carefully embroidered the felt, dried the flowers… With a resigned sigh, Iris lowered it from her face, her hands trembling. She slowly descended the stairs. 

Asra and Opal were waiting for her, Opal tending to the dinner cooking on the hearth, Asra nearby; he was staring off into space, his eyes starry as he absentmindedly stroked Faust, wound lazily around his shoulders. Iris snuck a lingering glance at him, her full lip sneaking between her teeth. She’d hardly realized his clothes were different before, she’d been so enchanted by his eyes, his smile – he was wearing an embroidered shirt under a long vest braided with threads of gold, copper, silver, his usual slinky pants and leather boots replaced with embroidered, pointy-toed shoes and pants that shimmered, gold, yellow, peachy brown, and tapered at the ankle. The sumptuous warm tones against the stark, starched white of his collar made his amber skin seem to gleam; Iris couldn’t help but stare as his sturdy, shapely hand smoothed over his vest, his usual mismatched rings looking out of place but somehow right, perfectly, perfectly Asra. 

His eyes snapped to her as the floorboards creaked underneath her feet, as she stood awkwardly in the doorframe, her arms unconsciously wrapped around her waist. The wild violet widened, the pupil darkening, as he stepped forward once, his hand on his vest slinking down to his heart; his lips parted around a gasp that caught, quietly stifled, in his throat. 

Still, it was enough for Iris to blush, for Opal to whirl around from the hearth, pushing up her rimless glasses from the bridge of her nose. Her mouth fell open. “My stars, Iris. You look absolutely lovely.” 

Iris trembled, suddenly so overwhelmed, but Opal had descended upon her, checking the fittings, the length, fussing over the hem, the row of pearl buttons that snaked up Iris’s spine. “Fits like a glove, your measurements shouldn’t have changed too much since we made your winter clothing, though you’ve been growing like a pole-bean and we couldn’t exactly measure you...” Without warning, Opal grabbed at the bosom of the dress, firmly tugging up the sweetheart neckline so Iris’s breasts properly sat in the bodice. “There. Perfect.” 

“But...” Iris stammered. “My hair...I don’t have any makeup...” 

“Don’t be silly, starchild, Asra will do your hair. But hmm, I hadn’t considered...” Opal tapped her lip thoughtfully, her freckled brow furrowed; then she snapped her fingers, a wicked grin rising as a star-smattered box flew down the stairs and into her outstretched palm. “Come here, little clove.” 

Iris stilled, breathing in for seven counts, out for seven counts, as Opal patted shimmery smoothing powder over her forehead, her nose, her chin, dotted a dark pink liquid, the color of the last rays of sunset, on her cheeks, smudged a touch of deep brown kohl in the waterlines of her eyes. For her lips, Opal procured an oil, tinted the color of peaches, that gave Iris only a hint of color, of lustre. 

“You don’t need much. Your complexion is so lovely – I can tell you, not all girls your age are this lucky.” Opal leaned back, her smile wide, her crow’s feet kindly. “What do you think, Asra?” 

Iris’s wide eyes flew up to him, now situated behind her, weaving strands of tiny pearls through her blonde waves, sculpting them with his magic. For a moment, they just stared, holding their breath as they both froze like startled deer; then Asra smiled, his true smile, the little dimples singing on his dark skin. “Beautiful.” 

Suddenly, the bell in the square tolled; the shop had darkened as the sun set. It was time for the masquerade. 

“Oh, stars, the hour. I suppose you’ll have to eat there, or you’ll never make it in time.” Opal took Iris’s cloak from the hooks by the front door, shaking it once; it shivered and warped from its eyebending blue to a soft chestnut brown. Asra wrapped himself in his own worn maroon cloak, hanging back slightly as Opal pecked Iris’s cheek, securing the cloak around Iris’s neck. 

“You’re a smart girl, Iris, but please be careful tonight. Don’t take drinks from strangers, and don’t stray too far from Asra. If you get overwhelmed, it’s okay to leave. And whatever you do, avoid the Count.” Her eyes flitted now to Asra. “Be back before midnight. I’ll be up, waiting.” 

Asra’s eyes glinted mischievously. “Blazhe’s coming over then, is he?” 

Opal pressed her lips together in annoyance, even if her eyes betrayed her amusement. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t want the answers, starchild.”

Asra only laughed as his hand fell on Iris’s shoulder; she felt a shiver go through her spine, even with his touch separated by layers of velvet. “We’ll be back before you know it.” He said with a wink, ushering Iris to the door with an easy press of his palm. 

Opal’s hands tightened around Iris’s arms, her expression sharpening with something Iris couldn’t name without dipping into her. “Please, Iris.” She whispered. “Keep your head on straight tonight.” 

Iris felt her breath catch in her throat; she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Opal’s shoulders. “I will. I always do.”

Opal smiled wanly, clearly still unsatisfied. The gentle pressure of Asra’s hand on Iris’s shoulder grew, just firm enough to guide her away; Iris felt her heart skip as she looked back to her Aunt once more, her quiet, uncertain smile, the way she wrung her hands, the way Sitara sat at her feet, her ears back, tail twitching nervously, as they crossed the threshold and the door to the shop closed behind them with a soft thud. 

In the low light of the lamp, Asra smiled softly. “She’s just worried about you.” He murmured, turning to Iris, a soft, conspiratorial lilt in his voice, one brow arched coyly. It was not an admonishment. 

Iris took a deep breath in; it was so much easier to speak to Asra when it was just the two of them, with no one else watching them, expectant, their smirks knowing, patronizing. “She doesn’t need to.” She said, her voice low, darkening; she drew her cloak closer around her waist, still uncomfortable in her finery. 

Asra’s eyebrow arched higher, but he said nothing, only humming thoughtfully as he offered his arm to Iris. She threaded her elbow through his, and the two of them stepped arm-in-arm into the rush of the crowded street. 

Hardly sunset, and the Market District was already suffocating with revelers, pressing against Iris and Asra at all angles; it wasn’t long until Asra had fully wrapped his arm around Iris’s shoulders, his chest pressed to her back, protecting her from the jostle as they worked through the already-drunk and ruddy-faced throng. When one of them stumbled and grabbed at Iris’s shoulders, their sour breath belching into her face, Asra huffed softly, pulling her into a dusty alley. 

“We’ll never get anywhere in this crowd.” He muttered, running his hand through his hair in thought. After a moment, he grinned, turning to Iris. “Want to try a spell?” 

Iris smirked, one brow raising slightly; already, she felt her magic surging to her fingertips, expectant. “Have one in mind?”

Asra just chuckled, gesturing for her to turn. She obeyed, smoothing her cloak around her hips, her dress rustling; Asra placed his hands gently on her shoulders, his lashes fluttering as he lowered his gaze, focusing inward. 

Then Iris gasped as their toes lifted from the ground, her slippers almost sliding off her feet as Asra’s magic coursed through her, cool and soothing like being submerged in calm waters. Asra’s grip tightened, not quite painfully, on her shoulders; then they were rising, rising, the entire city splayed out in front of them. 

Iris felt wonder bubble in her, her eyes wide as she took in the fantastic sight of the lights, squares of gold from windows, the gauzy drape of celebration, smoke from restaurants and food carts, baubles of laughter and singing, the air full of bubbles that looked to be made of gold filigree, lit from within, interspersed with white and blood-red. Then, a rise of panic bit the back of her throat, sharp and hot, and she reached back to clutch desperately at Asra’s cloak. He shushed her tenderly, his voice low and slow in her ear, as his hands slipped down her arms, taking her palms in his. 

“Don’t fight it, Iris.” He murmured; Iris could smell his breath, warm, smoky, like his favorite tea. “Follow my lead, and let your magic flow through you.” Then he breathed, seven counts in, seven counts out; Iris mirrored him, her heart rate slowing, her mind quieting. 

“Very good.” He said through his smile. “Want to try walking?”

“Walking?” Iris squeaked, her eyes shooting open. 

“To the palace, silly.” Asra said, his smirk mischievous. “No crowds up here, no streets. A straight shot.” He squeezed her hands softly. “Just one foot in front of the other, Iris.” 

She bit her lip, and, squeezing his hand back, she took a step forward; they floated across the flat, stuccoed roofs of the Market, each gentle step propelling them forward. After the first three or four steps, Iris laughed, a wide grin spreading across her face, lighting up her features, and Asra couldn’t help but chuckle softly, to squeeze her hands a little tighter as they strolled through the sky, weaving in and out of the bubbles, laughing together, each step taking them five, ten, times as far as a step on the ground would have. 

The stars and the lantern-bubbles sped past, the Market district, the canals, the marked luxury of the city’s heart; then Iris and Asra were stepping lightly over the aqueducts that ribboned around the palace, hopping easily off the lemonstone as they skipped towards the palace. 

Ahead of them were the palace gates, now choked with carriages and people and opulent tents, hawkers selling their wares, everyone shoulder to shoulder and elbow to elbow. Iris felt a tight little edge in her throat, but Asra leaned softly into her. “Don’t worry, Iris. I have something else in mind.” 

They swerved a little, turning instead towards the palace itself, peeling around the gleaming white bricks in an arc, slowly, slowly lowering with each step. Then the towers, the turrets, parted, revealing an epic garden, a sprawling orchard laden with ripe winter fruits, sweet orange and fragrant bergamot and tart tangerine, a swirling hedge maze that made Iris’s head spin, every flower and herb that she could name as they drifted down, landing with a final, sure step on the manicured lawn, an unnatural emerald green. 

Asra let go of Iris’s hands after a moment, laughing softly; he brushed a stray lock of her hair back into place, before pulling Iris’s mask out of his cloak. “You did so well with that, Iris.” He murmured as he tied the smooth ribbon to the nape of her neck. “It’s like you hardly need me to teach you anymore.” 

Iris smiled softly. “It’s because you’re such a good teacher.” She reached up and touched her mask, reveling in the softness of the fabric under her fingertips, how light it felt against her cheeks. “How do I look?” 

The corners of Asra’s mouth turned upwards, amused. “If I keep telling you you’re beautiful, Iris, it might go to your head.” 

Iris pouted for a moment, before perking up, realizing something. “Are you going to wear a mask?” 

“Ah.” He smiled widely. “I almost forgot.” With a snap of his fingers, mismatched rings clicking, his mask materialized across his cheekbones; almost a mirror image of hers, a deer’s face, but instead of flowers, soft, pointed ears, his arced up into short antlers that looked as if they were actually woven with bone. Iris reached up to touch, marveling at the cool smoothness under her fingers, like marble. 

Asra smirked. “Now, how do I look?” He teased, eyes sparkling. 

Iris couldn’t help herself, the coy smile that snaked across her cheeks. “If I keep telling you you’re handsome, it might go to your head.” 

Asra just laughed, his dimples popping; Iris was pleased she could still see them, that his mask didn’t obscure all his features. He offered his elbow to her. “Shall we?” 

Iris straightened, primly wrapping her hand around his elbow. “We shall, my deer.” 

“Oh no.” Asra moaned, jokingly. “I regret this already.” 

He guided her through the gardens as if he knew every twist and turn; it took Iris a few moments to realize he was leading with his magic, letting his intuition guide them through the winding bends of paving-stone and greenery. Then they were at a frenzied patio, slinking easily into the crowd, each person costumed more outlandishly than the last, gleaming pumas, golden Southern eagles, glittering skyfish, though more than a few turned their heads at the two magicians, the dazzingly handsome buck and the wide-eyed, youthful doe, that bound past them. 

Then they were flouncing up sweeping, curved staircases of slippery marble, leading to a wide veranda that spanned the entire back of the castle, the same marble, opulent, thick handrails the length of Iris’s forearm; then the were sweeping through massive doors, wood panels framing etched glass, into the castle proper. 

Iris couldn’t help but gasp; she had never seen such a lavish display of wealth, vaulted ceilings, Corinthian columns, bright white stone polished to a high lustre; the crowd was even tighter here, and Asra instinctually pulled Iris closer, his hand tightening on her shoulder, sending a jolt of pleasing electricity down Iris’s spine. A steward rushed up to them, taking both of their cloaks, as Iris gaped. 

“Each room has a theme, allegedly.” Asra whispered, his voice low, conspiratorial. “Which one should we try first?” 

Iris blinked out at the hallway, her brow settling in thought – then one called to her, one with a massive, undulating throng in front of it. She smirked, turning back to Asra. 

“That one. With the line.” 

Asra chuckled, his voice low and mischievous; Iris felt a soft wash of magic slip pleasantly over them and they wove their way through the crowd, past the line and behind the shouting, quivering chamberlain, through the double-doors, magically slick with some kind of glamour, into the room. 

Iris’s jaw dropped, her eyes wide as she spun around, taking in the room’s beauty. Bubbles of every shape and size, of every color, gold and silver and copper and magenta and violet and everything else, drifted through the room as if carried on some kind of magical current, dyed a shimmering, translucent lavender. 

They watched as a couple, looped in each other’s embrace as if they couldn’t bear to be apart for even a moment, reached out and touched one of the larger bubbles. It grew and grew around their fingertips, absorbing them into its pearlescent surface, until they were lifted off the ground, shrieking with laughter and falling over each other, bouncing against the surface of the other bubbles that filled the air. 

Asra turned to Iris, his eyes sparkling. “What do you think, Iris?” 

Iris giggled in response, her grin wide and wild as she reached out and touched one of the bubbles, Asra’s hand still firmly on her shoulder; the bubble wrapped around them with a soft, wet pop, the bright lights of the room refracting deliriously, chaotically through its filmy surface, over Asra’s hair and Iris’s face as they slowly lifted off the ground. 

Iris trilled with laughter, all the dimples in her cheeks shining as she was jostled off balance and into Asra’s hands. He caught her, easily, his arms closing comfortably around her bare shoulders, their chests pressed together as even the tiniest of movements from them sent the bubble careening through the room. 

“It’s a little cozy in here, isn’t it?” Asra murmured, his blush fierce under his mask. Iris felt the heat rising on her cheeks, too, as she threaded her arms awkwardly around his waist. 

“I think that’s the idea.” She said, glancing at the bubbles around them, all couples in varying states of entanglement. 

Asra hummed, his eyes glinting. “I have an idea.” He leaned towards her, and Iris inhaled sharply as images rushed across her starry eyes – his tawny lips grazing against hers, his hands sliding up, then down her back, the cool of his rings on her bare skin as his tongue tangled with hers, his voice hot, low, against her mouth – but he stopped just short, and the bubble lurched forward, bobbing through the air before it bounced against the surface of another bubble, knocking the couple inside, an arctic fox and a round-faced seal, off their feet. 

They shrieked, first with surprise, then with laughter; Iris found herself giggling wildly, pressing her gauze-gloved hand against the surface of the bubble to guide it away as the couple retaliated, bouncing forward, only to knock into another bubble, this time with two intertwined Seong guests dressed in matching qipao and red panda masks.

It quickly devolved into a free-for-all with Iris and Asra in the thick of it all, knocking and jostling against other bubbles, laughter and shrieking echoing chaotically through the cavernous room. A particularly strong knock from a lion and a mouse sent their bubble spinning end over end; Iris tumbled against Asra, their limbs tangling, but they didn’t care, they were giggling, laughing, reveling in the magic of the masquerade even as their bubble settled back to the floor, popping gracefully. 

Asra chuckled as he caught Iris, one strong hand around her waist, and carefully lifted her upright – with a grin, she fixed his mask, knocked askew by some bump. “That wasn’t quite what I was expecting from a masquerade.” Iris admitted, out of breath from laughing. 

“Oh?” Asra asked, his thick brow raised as they were ushered out of the room by the huffing chamberlain, as they hugged the wall of the marble hallway, away from the crowd. “What were you expecting?” 

“Oh, I...” Iris paused, fidgeting with the pearls in her hair. “I guess I thought it would be...stuffier? Boring, maybe? More...more dancing?” 

Asra laughed. “If it’s dancing you want, the ballroom is the place to find it.” 

“I...” Iris faltered. “I didn’t say that I wanted to dance.” 

When Asra arched his brows like this, just the corners of his smile turning knowingly, something wild surged through Iris, surged and ached. “Why don’t I believe you?” He teased, his deep voice low and velvety. 

Iris felt another hot flush creep up her cheeks, her neck. “I don’t know how.” 

Asra’s lips parted in a soft O. “You never danced on your dad’s feet as a kid? Alban reels, waltzes?” 

Iris laughed softly, even as the images flashed across her mind’s eye – her mother and father, dancing late in the night by the hearth, her mom’s head on her dad’s shoulder as they rotated slowly in the flickering firelight, Iris watching them, wide-eyed, from the top of the steps. Her feet on her dad’s as they stomped together around the yard, her mother clapping, laughing, laughing. “I...” She bit her lip, her breath sharp in her throat. 

Asra smiled softly, the lines around his eyes crinkling – his arm was still around Iris’s waist, she realized, when his hand smoothed over her back, long, soothing vertical strokes. “It’s okay, Iris. I’ll show you.” 

She smiled, a little wanly, her chest still tight. “Okay.” 

Asra’s smile was unbearable, glowing, devastatingly handsome. “Let’s find the ballroom, then.” His hand slipped down and off her back, and Iris missed the gentle touch, until his fingers wound through hers. 

They wove through the crowd, their hands clutched tightly to each others’ as the partygoers seemed to grow rowdier and rowdier with each passing minute. Iris could hear the far-off booming of marching drums, flugels and flutes, though with the arched, vaulted ceilings of the hallways, it was hard to tell how far-off. Then, there was shouting, yelling, as the voice of a crier echoed through the hall: “Make way for the parade!”

Someone pushed against Iris, the sharp sequins of their shark costume digging into her shoulders as she lurched forward. With a jerk, her hand slipped out of Asra’s; she turned around, wildly, searching for him, but he, too, was being pulled away, his outstretched hand impossibly far away as the crowd parted like the sea. 

“Iris!” He shouted, his eyes wide. “Find the ballroom! I’ll meet you there!” Then a massive float of the entire palace, levitated on magical tethers and constructed entirely of marzipan, down to the ant-sized, sugar-spun people dotting the grounds, hovered between them: the parade had started. 

Iris felt her heart hammering in her chest as she leaned back against the wall; all around her, the other partygoers were clapping, cheering, catching the favors and sweets the servants were throwing from the tops of the floats. She could feel panic rising in her throat, sticky and sour – she tried to breathe deep the way her aunt had shown her when anxiety stole her lungs, her brain, but it wasn’t working, it wasn’t working, she needed space, she was being pushed, jostled, she needed air, she needed - 

Her shaking hands found a doorknob, an ornately carved wooden door – the knob slipped in her gauzed hand as she slid the door open and whispered inside. 

It was some kind of receiving room, wood-paneled walls and tall, lattice-paned windows dressed in green velvet curtains. The marble floors were covered with rich Rostam rugs, muffling the sounds of the riotous hallway just outside; it was still full of people, but not so many that Iris couldn’t think, couldn’t sink into the nearest plush damask armchair with her head in her hands, carefully counting her breaths as her heart rate slowed. 

When she could finally, finally breathe again, she looked up, glanced around the room – the crowd was calm, chattering, laughing, convening around floating fountains that gushed with all sorts of drink, richly spiced cider that reeked of firewater, steeped tea the color of rum, wine of every color, the yeasty froth of ale. Iris stood to peer into the fountain closest to her; it was a luminescent pink, smelling faintly of roses and delicate Prakran candy, effervescent with bubbles the size of a pin’s head. 

“You have good taste, little fawn.” A voice, nasal yet commanding, purred in her ear; she jumped, her hand over her heart, as she rounded on the man. She recognized him immediately – the only man cocky enough not to wear a mask to his own masquerade. He towered over her by many centimeters, and his white suitjacket clinked with tangled, interwoven gold chains of all sizes, dangling from his sleeves, his collar, looped around the knuckle-sized rubies that served as buttons. His lapel was crimson silk, which reflected in his alchemical arm like pooled blood as his gauntleted hand closed around a wineglass, dipping into the dizzying pink. He held it out to Iris, her eyes wide as luscious beads dripped like morning dew from the stem, the foot of the glass, obscene, as obscene as the way his clear blue eyes bored into her. 

“_Rosée vierge_.” He cooed. “Virgin dew. One of the rarest Franc wines Earthside.” His smile stretched wide now as his eyes roved across her features, her cheekbones, her lips, her neck, her collarbone, her chest… “And one of the most delectable.” 

“Lucio.” A high soprano hissed, a woman’s touch falling on Iris’s shoulder. “Behave yourself, Arcana help us. Can’t you see you’re frightening the poor girl?” A mahogany hand plucked the wineglass from Lucio’s grasp and handed it to Iris; she glanced surreptitiously up at her savior, and barely suppressed her quivering gasp. 

It was the Countess Nadia, only a few years older than Iris herself; she was dressed in an unfathomable red, magenta, and rose-pink silk dress, rippled and rouched and plastered against her perfect body like it was wet. The curved cups perfectly accentuated the swell of her breasts, the low neckline enhanced her long neck, her shapely shoulders, the flowing tendrils of raw silk that swirled around her heeled feet illustrated her aching height. Her amethyst hair was slicked back into a tight, half-high bun at the crown of her head, and cascading curls framed her high cheekbones, the haughty, unimpressed rise of her full lips, her narrowed, garnet eyes. She was dripping in jewels on silver and leather bands, and wore them as if they were part of her own skin. 

“Come.” She said, gently, friendly now, her hand firm on Iris’s shoulder as she guided her away. “Your dress is absolutely gorgeous, it really brings out your rosy undertones – what is your name, dear?” 

“I-Iris.” She stammered, then took a sip of her drink, uncertain what else to do with her shaking hands as the Countess herself looped her arm around her shoulder. She barely suppressed a delighted shiver – it tasted much as it smelled, light and floral and fruity and charming. 

The Countess chuckled. “I’m pleased that you like the _rosée vierge_, Iris. Please forgive my boor of a husband – it’s his birthday, and he’s quite drunk.” Iris realized, with another leap of her heart, that the Countess was leading her over to a small cluster of equally beautiful people; a tall, deep-skinned figure in a gray leather tortoise mask, their red-and-silver streaked hair tied back in a messy ponytail, their suit a clamor of watercolors, sky blue and poppy red and blush pink and slate gray. Next to them was a much taller, much younger man, a sliver of fragrant firewater swirling in crystal between pale, anxious fingers, dressed in a black suit of shimmering brocade and long black rabbit’s fur, his wild auburn waves tamed only slightly by his red hare’s mask. 

Between them was a slip of a woman, hardly coming up to either shoulder, her cobalt blue hair piled on her head in two massive buns, dressed in a butter-yellow cheongsam, violently short and with matching, armpit-high gloves, embroidered all over with creeping white and blue florals. She raised an imperious, pencil-thin eyebrow at the younger man, her metallic lips glinting with a triumphant smirk. Her mask looked like a blue butterfly perching on her nose. 

“Lach a’Mhuilinn not to your liking, eh? Maybe you shouldn’t try to outdrink a law student, Ilya.” She purred, as the kind-eyed, red-haired person laughed; the younger man blushed as Nadia approached them. 

“This is Iris.” She said cordially. “Iris, these are my sisters, Princess Nazali, the second Princess of Prakra, and Princess Natiqa, the Sixth Princess of Prakra. And this is Nazali’s apprentice, Ilya.” Iris somehow managed a clumsy curtsy, carefully balancing the wineglass in her hand.

“Ah, what a lovely little deer.” The one Nadia introduced as Nazali purred, their smile raffish, their teeth dazzlingly white. “She looks hardly old enough to be drinking – how’d you end up here on your own, Iris?” 

“I, uh...” Iris swallowed hard. “I got separated from my chaperone. When the parade came through. We were heading to the ballroom.” 

Nadia tutted loudly, picking up the mask on the table they were crowded around – it was a silver hawk’s, a rare species from the North North, crimson feathers dipped in what looked like liquid platinum. “I told the servants not to run the parade through the grand hallway, but Lucio insisted.” She fastened the mask onto her face and turned to the tallest one, the one she’d called Ilya. “Would you be a dear and escort Iris to the ballroom to find her chaperone? I’d be so grateful.” 

The redhead raised an eyebrow and drained his drink with hardly a grimace. Iris, uncertain, finished hers, too, with a greedy gulp – the fizzy wine rushed through her system, making her suddenly very dizzy. 

Ilya’s hand reached out and caught her elbow, his leather gloves warm against her bare skin. “Careful, now, little deer.” He murmured, his lilting, accented voice soothing, sweetly amused. 

“For once, the whelp is right.” Nazali laughed. “Slow and steady wins the race, Iris. Pace yourself.” 

“Tell that to my husband. He can’t hold his liquor, and he can’t outpace a woman in bed, either.” Nadia deadpanned with a venomous eyeroll, sending her sisters into wild laughter as the one called Ilya offered his elbow to Iris, almost at her shoulder’s height. She took it, her eyes wide, as Nadia waved, a small smile slipping across her glossy lips as her escort lead her away. “It was lovely to meet you, dear Iris.”

Ilya was mostly quiet as he lead her through the twists and turns of the palace, the hallways too cacophonous for talk; when they reached a pair of massive double doors, he turned back to Iris, his eyebrows raised raffishly as he threw the doors open with a dramatic flourish. “What costume in your chaperone wearing, Iris?” He asked in his husky, musical voice, but Iris need not answer – there was Asra, right by the door, his knuckles pressed to his mouth in worry. Iris rushed to him, threw her arms around him; why were little tears pricking at the corners of her eyes? 

Asra started a moment, then laughed, lifted her up and spun her – when he’d set her back onto her feet, Iris turned back to thank her escort, but Ilya had disappeared into the crowd. “Where did you go, Iris?” Asra asked, his voice low. “I was looking and looking for you. I was worried.” 

“I...I found this room, with fountains of drinks. Booze. To escape from the parade.” Iris said softly. “I met the Countess there, and her sisters, and...” she swallowed heavily at the memory. 

Asra laughed heartily, his eyes closed, his dimples popping. “Sounds like you had a little adventure without me.” 

Iris smiled, a little wanly, just drinking the sight of him, his joy, his laughter; then the song changed, something soft and lilting. Asra’s eyes were impish, his smile liquid, as he took Iris’s hands in his, guiding one to his waist, nestling the other in his palm. “Stand on my feet, Iris.” He whispered. “I’ll show you the steps.” 

Iris hesitated for a moment, her heart leaping into her chest; then she felt his magic rushing through her, cool and relaxing as ocean waters, as she felt the weight on her feet, her legs, lift from her like mist – she stepped towards him, and he wrapped his arm around her, guiding her slippered feet onto his. 

And they danced, Asra swaying through the steps, the half swirl, the little lift, the gentle dip that left their fingers digging into each other. He said nothing, nothing, when Iris let her head drop onto his shoulder, and his hand wound up to the small of her back; she said nothing when he rested his chin on her crown, his breath soft against her hair; they both said nothing when the singer finally, finally broke into song, her voice full and lovely, the lyrics in mesmerizing Franc: “_C'est bien d'être amoureux, ça vous va, comme tout..._”

The song ended, changed, something more lively, and still they danced – the next, a little sultry, and still, they danced, until Iris lost count, until Iris stepped off Asra’s feet and let her own guide her, her hips, her shoulders slipping naturally into the beat, as Asra watched her dance with a soft fire in his eyes, adoring, gentle. It was only when Iris realized that beads of sweat were dripping down her neck, slick at her temples, that her feet were starting to ache, her legs wobble. Asra was flushed too, some of his snow-white curls plastered to his damp forehead. 

Asra caught her staring – he tentatively touched his forehead, his fingers coming away slick. “It’s hot in here, isn’t it?” He muttered, a touch absentmindedly. “Maybe we should take a break?” 

As if on cue, Iris’s stomach growled; they both laughed as Asra lead them off the dancefloor. At the edges of the ballroom were long tables of snacks, sweets and crisps and confections from every Earthside corner, towers of wineglasses and luscious cakes and opulent displays of flowers, candied in sugar like winter’s first frost. 

Iris took one of the delicate china plates, suddenly very aware of the hunger gnawing at her stomach; she piled her plate with caramelized nut tarts the size of her palm, Francish macarons of all colors of the rainbow, a little round of balcarce cake, Drakran balushahi, and sesame butter balls from Rostam. There was more, so much more, that she wanted to try, to eat, but she knew better than to fill her stomach only with sweets; she looked up, glanced around the ballroom looking for actual food, to only discover that Asra wasn’t there beside her. 

Iris’s hands trembled as her gaze swept around the ballroom, searching for his familiar shock of white hair, the undulating gold-peach-brown of his vest, the familiar soothing breath of his magic. It was too crowded – there were too many people, there was too much movement, Iris could feel the panic gripping her neck again like a cold metal claw, and yet - 

A spark, soft purple, from the corner of her eye – her neck snapped to the sight, the fine china plate crashing to the floor when she saw a pale hand around both of Asra’s wrists, pulling him into a clandestine panel of the ballroom’s wall. Iris took a deep breath, her own thick, oily magic washing over her as she sprinted through the crowd, easily slipping through the dancers as if she herself were made of butter, their eyes sliding off of her as if she wasn’t there. When she reached the panel and held her hand up to the wood, her fingers slipped through as if it were made of mist. Steeling herself, her hand over her heart, Iris stepped through the portal. 

A rough hallway, raw stone walls and unpolished wood floors, but clean and brightly lined with lanterns. The cacophony here was different, not of laughter and flirting and teasing, but running water, dishes and glassware clinking, quiet voices murmuring to each other. As Iris stood there, getting her bearings, a young steward rushed out of the doorframe to what Iris could only assume was a kitchen, a gorgeous gold-and-silver tray absolutely laden with crepes and eclairs. A servant’s hallway, she realized, stepping aside easily as the steward shouldered through the panel she’d stepped through. 

She bit her lip, her magic thrumming in her hands as she whispered across the rough wood, her footsteps hardly echoing, muffled by her obscurity charm. The hallway was rather narrow, but full of corners and cubbies and sharp turns, each leading undoubtedly to kitchens, laundries, offices and storerooms tucked away from the public. Then, she heard it, the scraping of metal on stone; she darted back around the threshold of a short hall, lined with dusty china and silverware; this was where she found Asra, and...her eyes flew wide with shock. 

It was Count Lucio, his face ripped apart with a leering, drunken grin – Asra’s wrists were bound above his head with the Count’s human hand, his body arched away from the Count’s imposing silhouette, his gilded claw carefully tracing the curve of Asra’s jaw.

“You’re the last person I expected to see here at the masquerade.” Lucio growled, though his voice was tinged with something warm, something familiar. “I thought you didn’t like crowds.” 

Asra’s response was cold, short, even. “I don’t. I came here with a friend.” Iris’s heart chilled as if it had been encased in ice – she had never heard Asra speak to anyone with such distance, such disdain. 

Lucio laughed darkly, leaning even closer into Asra. “You mean Iris?” 

Asra’s gaze was even, betraying no surprise. “She’s my apprentice; Opal’s niece. I’m teaching her magic.” Lucio tutted softly his grin turning menacingly. 

“Your apprentice? I’m jealous.” He cooed, his nasal voice dropping lower. “The things you must teach her, when the moon is high and the lights are low...just the two of you, studying late into the night...” 

Asra inhaled sharply; even Iris could see the color that painted his high cheekbones. “It’s not like that.” 

“No?” Lucio muttered. “A shame, Asra, really. A waste.” Iris winced as the horrible claw, glinting subtly in the shivering lamplight, scratched against the bare stone, screeching horrifically. Asra blanched, turning his head away from the sound, his muscled neck bare to the Count. “She’s such a comely young thing, isn’t she?” Lucio growled, his voice a gravelly purr. “Those tits, those _lips_...” He chuckled now, his metallic hand around Asra’s chin forcing him back to meet his gaze. “Tell me you don’t imagine them wrapped around your cock, her doe eyes watering as she gags on you, you holding her there as you come...” 

“You’re sick.” Asra spat, trembling. “She’s still a kid.” 

Lucio sneered. “Kids don’t have bodies like that. She’s a woman now.” He paused, one overdrawn brow rising softly. “Maybe you imagine her in your bed? On her back, her legs spread, thighs quaking as you touch her...oh, she asks you to go slow, be gentle, and you intend to, but that first time, it’s so tight and wet, it feels so good and you know...know no other man’s had her, you’re making her feel something she’s never felt before, so full, full of you, the sounds she makes, how she begs you not to stop… you can’t – you can’t help yourself...” Lucio pressed forward, his hips crushing Asra’s, and he let out a low, licentious moan as he ground down, his neck rolling back slightly. 

Asra froze, horrified; Iris could practically hear the shaky inhale of shattered breath as Lucio dipped down to whisper in Asra’s ear: “If you want to keep her for yourself, meet me in my chambers tonight.” 

Iris covered her mouth to suppress a gasp as Asra’s eyes darkened, that same sneer of disgust creeping across his face. “I’d rather march to the gates of hell.” He growled. A white-hot burst of energy swept over Iris’s face, like a flush of rage, and Asra wrenched himself away from Lucio’s grasp. But Lucio was quicker, his reflexes like lightning – Asra was pinned to the wall again, this time his jaw pressed painfully into the brick as Lucio forced his full weight against Asra’s back. 

“Think carefully, little magician.” Lucio hissed. “I’m a man of my word. One snap of my fingers and she’ll be delivered to my bed, trussed and gagged, should I choose.” 

Asra’s voice was dark and low, gasping and muffled as Lucio shoved the air out of his lungs. “She’d never willingly give into you.” 

Lucio laughed now, thin lips twisting into a derisive grin. “That’s what they all say.” 

A soft rattle behind Iris startled her, her eyes wide and wild as she glanced back furtively – a servant, no older than she, his hands shaking as he, too, stared in horror at the scene unfolding before them; the heavy tray of empty glassware, freshly washed from the kitchen, quivered dangerously on his shoulder. 

Iris’s heart pounded as she acted without hesitation, holding one finger to her lips as she met eyes with the servant. Mouthing softly, “I’m sorry,” she snapped with her other hand. 

The glassware jumped from the tray as if shocked, shattering cacophonously across the shale floor, biting through the deadly still of the servant’s hallway. Both Iris and the servant flinched, but she wheeled around; Lucio’s lips were lifted into a snarl, eyes darting towards the sound. With a grumble, he pushed Asra roughly into the wall, and the magician bowed slightly, coughing, as Count’s gaze slid imperiously over him. 

“Think on it, and clean yourself up. You’re embarrassing.” With a huff, a surreptitious sweep of his large hands through his hair, Lucio strode away, his tall, tall heels clacking as he disappeared through the secret passageway. 

Iris counted shakily to three, her heart hammering, before she bolted forward, her hands absolutely trembling as she grasped Asra by his shoulders, soothing, golden light flowing from her fingers into him. 

“Iris!” He gasped, his eyes flying to her, full of sorrow; then he coughed, raggedly, his breath still sharp in his throat. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...” He finally managed. “Did you...did you hear all that?”

“You don’t need to apologize.” Iris muttered fiercely. “He’s a monster.” 

Asra smiled wanly, accepting Iris’s hand, letting her help him stand. “Let’s get out of here.” He said softly, voice thin; Iris noticed, almost absentmindedly, that he wouldn’t look her in the eye as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder and they swept quickly from the hall.

*******

The ride home was painfully quiet. Asra splurged for a carriage to take them back to the Indigo Child; they didn’t even discuss whether to stay, both of their hearts pounding, shaken from their rose-tinged haze as they waited, shivering, in the January cold in the loop in front of the palace.

From this vantage point, Iris could see the whole city sprawled out in front of them, the steep clamber of the Heart district, the stairs and stairs and stairs that wound up and around the bleach-white cliff that the palace was situated on, the leveling flat of the Market district, then the canals that snaked through Goldgrave, the Southside, the Marina. The entire city was adrift in lights, twinkling gold and white and pink, and then – the seas, sparkling ink black, the moon high above the roiling Courageous sea, the whispering Quiet sea, the place where they kissed, the inlet on which the Seat of Vesuvia was built, the Najwa desert on the other side of the channel, barely, barely visible even from there. 

Iris had known all of this, read about it in books, seen the maps, visited the docks, but she’d never seen it laid out like this for her before. Even as the carriage zigged and zagged down the switchback roads that sliced through the city, Iris watched the receding cityscape with wide eyes. 

It was only when the roads leveled and they entered the Market district that Asra’s hand fell on Iris’s arm, squeezing gently through the velvet. “Iris.” He murmured. “We should talk about what happened.” 

Iris turned to him, but couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. “Why?” She mumbled. 

She was mortified to see the flush on Asra’s cheeks, his neck. “I...I just want to explain.” Iris lifted her eyes to him, but said nothing, biting her lip, biting her emotions back.

Asra, after a moment, a deep breath, continued: “I’ve known Lucio since I was a child. I don’t know why, but he kept tabs on the orphans in the city. Not to help us, but to take advantage of us. There was a little mob who did his bidding for scraps and attention.” Asra’s shoulders dropped a little, his gaze pointed downwards. “Anyone who didn’t bend to his will...he made their lives miserable. His guard would ransack our urchin jungles, burn our things, taunt us, even threaten to throw us out of the city.” 

Iris’s brows furrowed. “So you’ve known Count Lucio since you were a kid?” 

Asra nodded. “Even before he was Count. He was a favorite of the previous Count, and strutted around like he owned the place.” He took Iris’s hand in both of his, their palms cupped. “He knew I could do magic. I think that’s the only reason he searched me out like he did. He wanted me as part of his collection. His collection of powerful friends.” 

Iris hesitated, before placing her other hand on his, a trembling tower. “He wasn’t asking for your friendship, Asra.” 

His expression darkened. “I know.” He sighed heavily. “He’s pursued me since I came of age. There were many I knew that he gave food and favor to in exchange for...their company.” 

Iris flinched. “Then he really is a monster.” 

Asra’s hand tightened around Iris’s. “He is. And Iris...” Asra’s eyes were fierce now, the pupils dark and dilated. “I promise you. I will never let him hurt you. Ever.” 

The memory of Lucio’s eyes, icy and pale and lined with slashes of kohl, flickered in Iris’s vision like sparks. “Could he follow us? To the shop?” She asked, shocked by how much her voice wavered. 

With a sigh, Asra ran his hand through his hair, lost in thought. “He certainly could, but I doubt he will. He’s probably already found some other warm body to chase. There’s no shortage of power-hungry lunatics falling over themselves to crawl into his bed.”

To this, Iris had no response, only the sour on the back of her tongue. She sidled a little closer to Asra, let her head fall onto his arm; they were silent a long moment, lulled by the rocking of the carriage, the clatter of the cobblestones under hooves. Iris let her eyelids drop, only for a moment, when Asra wrapped his arm around her shoulder, her head dipping against his chest. 

When Iris blinked her eyes back open, the carriage had shuddered to a stop, and Asra was lifting her, his voice low and silken as he murmured in her ear, “_Kami di dieu, kijang abdi. Salamet anjeun ayeuna._” He practically carried her over the threshold, his arm still looped under her shoulder – the door closed behind them with the syncopated click of locks and the gentle steep of white light.

The shop was dark, and empty, the hearth merely glowing embers. There was a soft mewing sound as Sitara stretched from her pillow on the counter, then headbutted the scrap of paper beside her. It was Asra who picked it up, his gaze flying over the sloping handwriting as he read. He chuckled softly as Iris scratched Sitara’s ears, earning her satisfied, rumbling purrs. 

“Blazhe put Opal to bed. She was so worried about you she drank a whole bottle of wine by herself.” Asra said with a soft shake of his head. “What do you say, Iris? Bed sounds pretty good to me right now.” 

Iris’s stomach growled, loudly. “Actually, I – I didn’t eat at all.” 

Asra’s eyes flew wide. “You didn’t get to eat anything at the masquerade?” 

Iris shook her head. “Just a glass of wine.” 

Asra’s smile was teasing as he flicked his wrist, lighting one of the low lanterns in the shop. “With your appetite, I’m surprised you haven’t collapsed yet.” He slipped under the curtain to the backroom, his voice fluttering. “Maybe Opal left dinner out...” 

“What are you saying, Asra?” Iris asked with a wry lift of her brow, but Asra didn’t answer – Iris heard the shuffling of plates from the kitchenette as she slipped carefully into the little tea booth. 

Asra returned, two plates, two pats of warm-soft butter, two pieces of fragrant, cinnamon-swirled bread – the gift from Selasi. Opal must have put it away for her, Iris realized, as Asra slid into the booth on the other side of her, his grin knowing. “I see you stopped by Selasi’s. Is this his new recipe? He told me about it last time I saw him.” 

Iris raised her eyebrows now, slathering her slice in butter. “When you told him it was my birthday today?” 

Asra blushed faintly. “He asked. You’ve been here a year now. People pay attention.” Asra fiddled with his piece of bread, tearing off a delicate, browned corner. “When they care.”

Iris said nothing, taking a bite of the bread; her hand flew to her mouth to stifle the moan of delight behind her lips. The bread was crispy, flaky, buttery, lightly glazed – the pumpkin swirl that ran through it was sweet and rich, delicately spicy. “By the gods.” Iris murmured. “This...this is...” 

Asra’s eyebrows shot up, a coy smirk curling on his lips. “That good?” He took a dainty bite – his eyes flew wide. “Damn. He really outdid himself.” 

The bread was soon gone, devoured ravenously – the kettle whistled, and Asra retrieved it, bringing back with him two mugs of chamomile and honey tea. He sighed softly as he sank back into the booth, as Iris thumbed the rim of her tea, the steam tickling her fingertips. 

“I’m sorry your birthday didn’t go exactly as planned, Iris.” Asra’s voice was small, his eyes faraway as he stared down into his mug. Iris bit her lip, smiling a little as she took a sip of her tea; even like this, the forlorn part of his lips, the soft drop of his brow, Asra was devastatingly handsome. 

Iris couldn’t suppress a little chuckle. “Are you kidding, Asra? I had the best time.” At Asra’s wide eyes, Iris smiled. “We rode around in a giant bubble. You flew me to the palace. I...” She pinked a little. “I got to dance with you. It was magical.” 

Just the corners of Asra’s mouth turned up; not enough for his dimples to appear, and not enough for his eyes to sharpen out of their distant melancholy. “I’m glad, Iris.” He opened his mouth to say something more, but thought better of it, only letting his smile whisper wider, then drop away. 

They finished their tea in silence, heavy but companionable. Then Asra stood, his sigh leaden. “I think it’s time I turned in.” 

Iris stood too. “You’re staying here, right? It’s too late to walk through the forest alone.” 

Asra’s eyes glinted softly. “I think I can make do on the futon tonight.” 

“Good.” Iris whispered; she realized her heart was fluttering, even as Asra took the mug from her hands, his strained smile melting away. He turned away from her, towards the backroom where the roll-out futon was stored; the shadows cast by the lanternlight split across his soft features, his eyelashes spikes across his high cheekbone, his downturned eyes dark, shadowed. Iris couldn’t know what secrets hid behind his violet eyes, and maybe she never would, she realized in that moment. It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter. 

She flung her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer to her, breathing in his intoxicating scent, smoke and herbs and tea, spices, sweet orange. “Thank you, Asra.” She muttered into his neck, oh, his skin was so warm on her lips as she stood on her tiptoes and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. “For everything.” 

Iris swore his hands trembled as he laid them on her shoulders, embracing her gently, returning her warmth in his way. “Of course, Iris.” He let her linger for only a moment before pulling away; now, his eyes were warm, liquid, sweet as violet syrup. “Good night.” He paused, giving her one last glance, the smallest smile stealing across his face before he slipped behind the curtain; Iris stared after him only a moment, her hand over her pounding heart, before she crept up the stairs to where her bed was waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC: Happy Halloween/Samhain, y'all. Thanks for reading, as always <3 _


	4. The Rose Quartz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Asra and Iris reconnect. 
> 
> Iris x Asra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Ra Ra Riot - Bad to Worse **
> 
> _ CW: Mentions of sexual harassment _

Late May, late spring; the sun was still up, though well on its descent to setting, when Iris closed up the shop, the three locks springing shut in quick succession with just one gentle pointing gesture. Asra had just taught her the spell, urged her to imagine the mechanisms inside the lock, to hear the sounds of the gears turning, the hammers clicking, to draw up feelings of safety and security. She had gotten it on the first try. 

A second gesture, a sweep of her hand, and the soft yellow light streaming in through the window over the counter, crossed with shelves and garlands and wares displayed in mismatched colored glass jars, sputtered and died. Asra had taught her that spell almost a month ago now; the fire spells had been easy for her since the beginning, stoking the hearth, boiling water for tea, summoning flames and light. But everything was getting easier now. It felt not like she was learning, but that the magic had been locked somewhere in her marrow, in the deepest corners of her mind, in the same place her dormant memories lay sleeping, maybe. She hardly had to practice anything now. 

“Iris.” Asra’s voice was soft and low as he called down the winding stairs from the apartment. “I could use your help. Dinner’s almost ready. I thought we could eat on the roof, catch the sunset.” 

Iris gave a scratch to the ears of the old, fat tortoiseshell cat, Sitara, asleep on the counter, then a chin rub to Faust, coiled up lazily beside her; she ascended the stairs quickly in her bare feet, her loose skirt swishing at her knees, rolling up the sleeves of her linen shirt as she gracefully lifted the heavy curtain, stepped over the threshold. 

The apartment was hazy and warm with the heat of cooking; Asra was at the stove, stirring a pot of red curry, the last of the spring peas and green beans, the fresh prawns gifted to them this morning from their favorite fishmonger (Asra had crafted an after-hours potion late in the night when her wife went into early labor just three nights ago). Asra’s brow was glistening, the little curls at the nape of his neck damp, the tip of his tongue between his lips in contented focus; Iris felt the heat on her neck, felt her heart skip at the sight of him. 

He turned to her at the sound of her alighting, a fond smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Can you chop the herbs for me? Like I showed you, curl your fingers. Be careful.” He turned back to the stove, blowing on the tasting spoon, and Iris hardly registered taking the knife in her hand, fanning the cilantro out on the cutting board, as she watched him taste the curry, hum thoughtfully, reach for the lemons in the bowl on the counter, split one into quarters with his magic, his face in profile, the riot of curls just obscuring his elegant brow, his violet eyes, normally sparkling with quiet mischief or starry with daydreams, now narrowed around a thought, his parted lips, soft and full, Iris had memorized them at all angles, imagined them – 

Iris hissed as the knife clattered, the greens now scattered with red as she pressed her thumb into the cut instinctually. “Fuck!” She cried, the pain blooming through her hand, crimson ribbons running down her finger. 

Asra appeared at her side immediately, her wrist in his gentle fingers as he examined the cut. “I told you to be careful.” Asra said softly, not an admonishment, his eyes flitting to hers for just a moment before he kissed the bloodied tip of her finger. Iris stifled the little, surprised sound that bubbled up in her throat; she felt something else, like bubbles, in her belly, and she blushed, turning away slightly. Her finger came away from his lips healed, the skin soft and fresh, like morning’s milk. 

“It’s okay.” He murmured, reading her blush as embarrassment. “See? It’s fine. You’re still learning.” He chuckled softly as he licked his lips and pushed a curl out of her eyes, his touch feather-light and brotherly. “Just go slow next time.” He magicked the bloodied herbs into the trash, salvaging some to sprinkle on their dinner, already spooned over long, curling rice in colorfully patterned bowls, blue for her, purple for him. 

Iris’s hand slipped into the pocket of her dress, worrying the smooth stone there as Asra pushed the door to the rooftop open with his hip, holding it open for her, handing her the bowl as she stepped out into the sweetly-scented evening. Their little garden was thriving, riotous even: the summer herbs, the basil and mint and chamomile verdant and fragrant in their terracotta pots; the lavender fanning its long tendrils in the setting sun; the ferns and palms shading the corner where Asra must have long ago placed two worn wooden seats, painted a lovely shade of cerulean blue. Iris sat in the one by the vibrant peonies, vibratingly magenta, that covered the little rooftop with their flushed scent. The just-budding wild roses next to them, white and yellow and bridal pink, would be blooming in earnest soon. In the corner, the tomato blossoms winked, dainty and sun-yellow; the zucchini were already ballooning, the plants starting to bow under their weight.

Asra sank down beside her with a sigh, his eyelashes fluttering closed. “What a crowd in the shop today. I’m beat.” He murmured, his low voice painted with exhaustion. He turned to her, his neck long, the sinews dancing and his collarbones standing at attention as he smiled wanly at her. “You did a really good job today. With the customers. You didn’t even need me while I was making dinner – Faust didn’t call for me at all.” 

Iris blushed again, slowly stirring the rice into her curry, careful not to spill on her white shirt. “Thank you.” She said, a little clumsily. “It’s getting easier to remember the words.” Sometimes, she had to duck upstairs into the water closet to lay on the floor with her head between her knees and breathe deeply the way Asra had taught her, seven counts in, seven counts out, when the words blanked on her. Or swirled too violently in her head. There were so many of them to remember, witch hazel and tourmaline and oxymel and sigil and talisman, and that was just for the shop. She had lost count of the number of words she learned since she woke up four months ago, her head empty of everything. 

“I can tell.” Asra’s expression made Iris ache, pride and happiness warming his features. He reached over and cupped his hand over hers, thumb wandering fondly over her knuckles. “You’re getting more talkative.” 

“I’m trying.” She spooned the first bite into her mouth, hoping to quell the conversation, hoping to quell the not-quite-painful little ache between her legs. “Oh.” She hummed. “It’s tasty, Asra, thank you.” 

“I’m glad you like it.” It was his turn to blush now, to turn away, looking out at the setting sun, the sky flushed with pink and magenta, violet and lavender. The stars were already starting to sleepily blink awake above them. 

They ate in silence now, Asra’s gaze fixed on the sunset, Iris pretending to watch it as she stole glances at him. She still knew next to nothing about the sweet, mysterious magician she lived with, that she was apprenticed to, except that his eyes lit up then quieted sadly every time he looked at her. But he knew everything about her, every mortifyingly intimate detail. In that first month, when everything, her skin, her limbs, her bones, ached and her head split with constant headaches, he’d taught her how to use the bathroom, how to bathe and groom herself, how to speak, how to do simple things like cut vegetables and tie her boots and read and count pentacles in her palm. He taught her how things were, the way of the world around them; Vesuvian customs, the names of their neighbors, their customers, the layout of the city. 

He even taught her what to fear. Once in that first month, she wandered off while they were shopping in the Market district to run her hands over the colorful bolts of fabric at the clothier’s, and a broad-chested man whose breath smelled like sour grapes approached her and wouldn’t leave her alone, even grabbing her arm and trying to pull her into one of the alleys with him. She got in a bit of trouble there, punching the guy right in the eye; luckily Selasi, lion-voiced, flour-dusted, warm-smelling Selasi, saw the whole thing, talked the man down and brought her to Asra, who cried – she had never seen him cry before – when he embraced her. 

When he brought her home, he explained sex to her, the differences between male and female bodies, pleasure and desire and lust and consent, what some men would do to women who refused them, take without asking, without caring. When her menses came in the second month, he told her she could have a child now if she wanted, and she had to be even more careful with her body. She didn’t fear every man at the Market, but her senses were heightened now when she went out without Asra to protect her, the athame he’d given her after that day strapped to her thigh. She’d had to reach for it more than once.

But the newfound knowledge of sex had stirred up something peculiar in her. She would watch out of the corner of her eye as Asra dressed in the morning, undressed at night. They slept next to each other in the bed, and Iris would lay awake staring at him, watching his silhouette rise and fall, listening to the little sounds he made with dreaming. She yearned to touch him, run her fingers over his glowing amber skin, place a texture to the sight of the swells of his chest, the curious landscape of his stomach, the mysterious creature between his legs. 

In the third month, she started going to the bathhouse on her own, and when she was alone in the baths (she quickly figured out when they were mostly likely to be empty), she imagined him, his body, his hands, his lips, his eyes. It wasn’t long before she learned how to touch herself under the warm water until the tension was unbearable, until her toes curled and her body rang and she had to bite the meat of her hand not to be heard, not to call his name into the cinnamon-scented steam, imagining his mouth wrapped around her – 

“Iris.” Asra said quietly but firmly, his voice sibilant with soft laughter. “Come back to me. Did you hear my question?”

Iris blushed. “No, sorry, I was...daydreaming.” The bowl in her lap was empty, as was Asra’s. It was dark now – the fairy lights glowed orange with Asra’s magic above their heads, twinkling sporadically. Iris’s hand was in her pocket, thumb worrying the smooth stone that sat heavily in her palm.

“I asked if you wanted to go inside.” 

“I like it out here.” Iris replied. “It feels nice.” The dry heat had relented a little now that the sun wasn’t bearing down on them. She turned the stone over in her fingers, wrapping her palm around it as if she were holding a hand. 

Asra merely smiled, gathering the bowl from her lap and whisking inside. Iris took the moment to take the stone out of her pocket: a perfectly smooth rose quartz, oblong and the size of her palm. She had been carrying it around all day since a woman had come in early in the morning looking for an auspicious and unique wedding gift for a young couple. 

“Rose quartz is a lovely choice.” Asra had said confidently, leading the woman to the long shelf where they displayed the gemstones. He selected one of the larger, more dazzling pieces, rough-hewn but mottled beautifully, the color of dusk, and showed it to her – Iris almost laughed at the way the woman’s eyes lit up. 

“Rose quartz attracts romantic and harmonious energy, and represents unconditional love and compassion.” Asra explained. “Tell the couple to place it by their bedside, and their marriage will be blessed with an abundance of love, affection, and mutual understanding.” Asra waggled his eyebrows now as he grinned impishly. “It does wonders for the libido, too. Rose quartz can be used to enhance sexual attraction, desire, and pleasure.” The customer practically threw her pentacles at Asra; as Asra was wrapping the gift, Iris slipped one of the smaller, tumbled pieces into her pocket. 

She quickly stowed it back as Asra returned, now with two mugs of chamomile and lavender tea harvested from their own garden. Iris didn’t even need to take a sip before she smelled the honey Asra had put in hers – he knew she craved something sweet after dinner. 

“Did you learn anything new today?” Asra asked, settling into his chair, but sideways, his knees curled up in front of him so he could face Iris. “Anything you want to ask about?” 

Iris angled her body to face him, coiling her feet up under her thighs. She pressed her fingers into her lips. “I have a question. But I don’t know how to ask it.” 

“That’s okay.” Asra reassured her warmly, taking a sip of his tea. “Give it a shot. I’ll help you.” 

She paused for a long minute, mustering up her courage. “Do you...” She faltered, color rising to her cheeks. “Do you feel desire?” 

Whatever Asra thought she might ask, it wasn’t that. He sputtered a little on his tea, so much that Iris lurched forward, her eyes wide with concern. He paused, considering his words carefully. “What do you mean by desire?” 

“Do you...have a desire for sex?” Iris couldn’t stop the heat from radiating out of her chest now, up her neck, down her meridian. 

“I, um...yes, I do, but...most adults do, Iris. It’s completely natural. Are you – do you…?” Asra stammered; Iris thought he couldn’t turn redder. 

Iris bit her lip. “Do you...do you feel desire for me?” 

No. Asra could turn redder. Even worse, his face fell into a study of despair, confusion and despair. “Oh, Iris...it, it’s...that...” 

“I...I’m sorry.” Iris stood, not meeting his gaze, her own face reddening now. “It’s private. I shouldn’t have asked.” 

“No, Iris, wait –” Asra stood abruptly too, but she was already at the door, feeling the familiar rise of panic in her throat, but where would she go, where would she go to hide? Asra, Asra was everywhere, she could hear his voice in the water closet, hear his footsteps overhead in the reading room, see his eyes when she closed her own…

His hand wrapped around her wrist. “Wait, Iris. It’s okay.” She shivered, not from any kind of cold, and turned back to him, her eyes sparkling with mistiness that she didn’t want, she was so embarrassed… “Why did you ask?” 

“Because...” She grimaced, trying to stop the tears from falling. “I think...I think I want you. I don’t know what to – what to do…? I catch myself staring, staring at you...I get lost in daydreams of...of you...you even come to me in my dreams, Asra...” 

“Oh...oh, Iris...” Asra took the mug from her hand, set them both down on the baked roof, and opened his arms to her. She crumpled, rubbing her eyes as she cried softly, as he nuzzled his cheek into her hair. “I’m sorry. It’s okay. It’s okay.” He cooed, his warm palms rubbing soft circles on her back. 

When she finally settled, she pulled away a little, painfully aware of her hands on his chest, his hands on her back. “So what do we do now?” 

Asra didn’t pull his hands away from her, but he didn’t pull her closer, either. His eyes were warm, compassionate. “That’s up to you, Iris. Sex...it can complicate things. I want you to feel safe here with me. If you want to...to try this, we’ll go at your own pace.” 

Iris shook her head. “I don’t want to just try it to explore. I want you. I don’t want...I want you to want me, too.” She finished in an embarrassed murmur. 

“Oh, my h– ...Iris...” Asra’s eyes were liquid now, his pupils dark and wide. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for so long. I wish...” He trailed off, biting his lips together. 

“Wish what?” She whispered, her eyes wide.

He shook his head softly; a chill little ebb of annoyance tinged the warmth in her belly, but she knew better than to press him, to read him – it would lead nowhere. “I don’t know...I don’t know how to do any of this, Asra. You’ll have to show me.” 

A soft smile, warm and honeyed, spread across his achingly beautiful features, bringing out his dimples. “Don’t doubt yourself, Iris. This will come as naturally to you as magic.” 

“How do you know?” She muttered, her cheeks reddening again. 

He leaned a little into her now, pressing his forehead against hers, sending little arcs of electricity down her neck, her spine. “Because you’re astonishing, Iris.” The way he looked at her made her want to split in half, over and over again. “Normally...it starts with kissing. Can I kiss you?” 

Iris hadn’t considered this. She had seen couples kiss in the Market, read of kissing in the novels and spellbooks scattered around the shop, the flat. “Why does it start with kissing?” She wondered aloud. 

Asra hummed thoughtfully. “It’s an expression of affection. And it feels good. For women… for men and women…it can help the body relax, get aroused. Then sex feels...better. More pleasurable.” 

Iris swallowed. “Okay.” 

“Or...would you rather kiss me?” 

Iris’s brows furrowed. “Is there...a difference?” 

Asra chuckled softly, not unkindly. “Yes, and no.” His hand was on her cheek now, the same way he would when they woke up in the morning, gentle and tender. “Do you want to kiss me?” 

Iris responded by slowly, tentatively pressing her lips to his. Oh, she could melt in his arms, his lips were so soft and so warm – she could feel the surprised little puff of air against her own lips, feel the helpless little groan that rose up from his throat as she lingered, then pulled away, ever so slightly. It wasn’t enough; quiet desire enveloped her, and she pressed her lips gently again into his, this time kissing him over and over and over, letting her hands tighten in the silky folds of his summer dress. Asra was right. Kissing felt good. 

It was he who pulled away. “See? You know what to do.” He angled her chin up slightly. “Can I show you how I want to kiss you?” 

Iris shuddered, the warmth flushing her chest spreading downward, coiling through her belly. She nodded feverishly; he laughed softly, and then his lips were on hers. His kiss was hotter, his lips pressed more firmly against Iris’s, his mouth moving against hers, and she responded, she responded like her mouth, her body, was made for this. His other hand was in her hair now, fingers woven through the short blonde waves – he had touched her hair before, friendly pats on the head when they hugged, ruffling her hair playfully when teasing her, even smoothing it down to soothe her, but never like this, never like he needed to feel it between his fingers, like it was the softest, most beautiful thing he had ever touched.

They kissed and kissed and kissed in that starlight, and something inside Iris unfurled, blooming and dewy. She pulled away with a delighted hum as Asra’s fingers traced down her cheek to her neck. “Can I kiss you here?” He asked her, his voice deep and velvety as he leaned into her; she smiled and nodded. 

It was as if he knew exactly what her body craved before she knew to ask for it. He kissed a long line down her neck, from the tender space behind her ear to the graceful dip where her clavicles met, his pillowy curls tickling her cheek, his palms warm and steady against the small of her back, between her shoulderblades. Iris’s voice was low and formless in her throat as each kiss sparked in her, stretched her chest open, thick and slow and spreading like honey dripping; her hands slid down his chest and around, clutching his waist as she arched her back into his touch. 

“Can we...” Her tongue was thick in her mouth, her voice shaky in her throat. “Can we move to the bed?” 

Asra sighed sweetly against her skin. “If that’s what you want, Iris.” She nodded feverishly again, and she turned her head towards him to kiss, but his hands were gripping her firmly, suddenly, under her seat, her back, as he lifted her into his arms. He’d carried her dozens of times before, to lay her in the bed when she fell asleep on the patio, in the reading room, the dressing chair curled up with a book, but this time, it was different, needful, the hammering of his heart pressed so heavily against her chest, the heady, shaky inhale that Iris felt rather than heard, and his lips, his soft and wild lips on hers. Instinctually, she clutched to his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist as the door swung open magically and he walked her into the flat. 

Iris’s heart was in her throat as Asra knelt at the side of the bed, placing her gently in a seated position, him on his knees in front of her. His eyes could have broken her, how dark and starry they were, like the night sky above them, and his parted lips were swollen and dusky with her kisses. His hands were on her knees, fingers melded to the taper of her legs. 

“What do you want to do, Iris?” He asked softly; his fingers ran tenderly, almost absentmindedly, up her thighs and back again. The place between her legs surged, ached. 

“I...don’t know, Asra.” She was blushing like a schoolgirl. “I don’t know where to start.” 

He hummed thoughtfully as he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss into her clothed knee. “You said you had dreams. Maybe you could describe one to me?” He looked up at her now through feathery white lashes. 

She squirmed. “I don’t know, Asra...” He removed his hands from her, his brows furrowed in concern. 

“You’re in control here, Iris.” He assured her, his voice sea-slow. “We can stop whenever you want...and if you start to get a headache, I need you to tell me. But...” He paused, his eyes darting away. “It’s okay to feel scared. I’m scared, too.” 

Iris touched his cheek – she was shocked when he leaned into her touch hungrily, like a cat, with a tiny, almost imperceptible hum of pleasure. “What are you scared of, Asra?” 

He inhaled shakily. “Hurting you.” 

Iris’s heart fluttered; she closed her eyes, drawing the images up to her. “I have this one dream often...” She began, tracing her thumb over his taut cheekbone. “It’s morning, we’re in bed together – we’re just waking up. You...” Her breath hitched. “You climb on top of me, start taking off my pajamas.” She startled slightly when Asra’s hands returned to her thighs, rubbing softly. “You… you kiss me, but not my lips, you kiss my breasts, then my belly, and you go lower and lower until...” 

Asra hummed in understanding, his eyes lidded and mischievous, making Iris surge, something dark and wanting pouring through her, rich and lush like red wine. “Do you want me to undress you?” He asked, one hand now trailing up the buttons of her linen shirt. The sound of his voice, how close his hands were to her breasts, how close his body was between her legs…

“Yes, please...” She was and wasn’t surprised by the naked need in her voice. 

Asra leaned up to her, pressing his lips against hers, kissing her over and over, as he slowly worked each button open, one by one by one. When her shirt hung fully open, exposing a long strip of smooth, secret skin, Asra pulled away from the kiss. 

“Can I touch you?” He asked, the soulful desire in his question impossible to ignore. Iris responded by taking his hand and placing it under her shirt, over her heart, the heel of his palm against the swell of her breast. 

With a little smile, Asra smoothed both hands up to her shoulders, tenderly peeling the shirt away until Iris was bare-chested in front of him; she blushed when she realized her nipples were hard and peaked, but she moaned when Asra thumbed one tentatively, cupping the swell in his sturdy hands, the other hand sliding against her waist, her ribs. 

“Can I kiss you here?” This question was almost painful for him; Iris could almost see the tension in his muscles as he waited for her. 

“Yes.” She tried to say evenly, but it was practically another moan. The sound didn’t match the cold little spiral of trepidation that sprang through her, but it matched the way her breath was quickening, the thick slip between her legs that she could no longer deny. 

Asra kissed her lips once, softly, sweetly, pulling away with the whole galaxy in his eyes as he dipped down and kissed the swell of her other breast, lower and lower until he had coaxed a rosy nipple into his mouth. Iris moaned again, louder this time, as Asra suckled her gently, a low, blissful groan rumbling through his throat. 

She didn’t think that someone kissing her breasts would feel so good, but she found herself running her hands through Asra’s hair, biting her lips to keep herself from crying out as he swirled his tongue over her skin, then switching gracefully to the other, kissing it over and over again until her nipple was so hard it almost hurt. 

She whimpered a little when he pulled away, licking his lips as he looked up at her. “Are you okay? Do you want to keep going?” He whispered. 

She nodded, letting her eyes flutter closed as she leaned back on one hand, the other still in Asra’s hair. “I feel good. This feels good.” 

She could feel Asra smiling against her breast as he kissed her again, this time the inside of the each swell, the place where her breasts met, then the little valley where her ribs knit together. He dragged his fingertips down to the high waist of her skirt, a question; Iris surprised herself when her own fingers joined his, helping him push the waistband down over her hips, falling to the floor with a solid thunk. She was completely nude now, not a scrap on her save for her jewelry, the stud and hoop in her nose, the delicate amethyst moon on a lanyard around her neck. 

Asra hummed as he took in the sight of her, his hands finding the cinch of her waist. He had seen Iris naked before, so many times, but he had never looked at her like this – or had she not noticed? – with quiet fire, with brazen hunger. “You’re so beautiful.” He breathed, his lips on her navel now. “You’re absolutely breathtaking, Iris.” He ran his palms languidly down the slopes of her body, grasping at her hips now as he kissed lower and lower, until his lips brushed her belly button, the silky, pillowy swell just below it. 

He paused for a moment. “In your dream...” He began, his voice leaden and dripping. “Did I kiss you between your legs?”

Iris nodded, unable to form the words – his lips were so close to her sex, he could probably smell her, see how wet she was, she was blushing, she was already breathless and undone…

Asra stared up at her through his impossibly long eyelashes, eyes sparkling and liquid. “Do you want me to do that? To please you?” 

Iris’s breath hitched. “You...you don’t have to, I know...you won’t get any pleasure from it...” She nearly panted, head swimming. To her surprise, the corners of Asra’s mouth lifted in amusement. 

“Sex shouldn’t be transactional, Iris. A good lover prioritizes their partner’s enjoyment and safety.” He murmured, before kissing the inside of her naked thigh. “Besides, I do get pleasure from it.” His eyes were impish now, gorgeous and glittering. “I get to make you feel good; I get to watch you come. I...” He paused, swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “...I get to taste you.” 

At this, Iris moaned, her head rolling back on her shoulders. “Please...” She found herself whimpering. 

“Oh, Iris...” He murmured, his lips still on her thighs, and Iris thought she would die, the unabashed want in his voice as he gripped her hips a little more firmly. He scooted her closer to the edge of the bed, and she leaned back on her elbow, watching him as he urged her legs further open, fingers kneading the inside of her thighs as he dipped down, kissing the seam where her legs met her seat, the pillow of flesh where her thighs were the thickest, the pretty swell of her mound. He kissed her everywhere until every touch of his lips sent a delightful little shiver up her spine, loosed a little hum or moan or inhale from her. 

Still, she wasn’t ready for how it would feel when he finally, finally, kissed her parted, dripping sex, his lips brushing once, twice, over and over, against the swollen bud of her clitoris; she bit her lip futilely against the sound she made, a long, low cry of “_Asra..._”

He was using his tongue now, pressing slowly, lazily against her; he was groaning, almost as if he was the one being pleased, his voice vibrating through her and shameless in his bliss as he increased his pace slightly, looked up at Iris. The sight, the sight, of his mouth buried in her wetness, his eyes dark with lust and...something else, something sweet and light and somehow sad...sent Iris so wild that she could hardly bear it, rolling her head back and closing her eyes as a delicious pang of pleasure pulsed through her hips. 

Iris had suspected that Asra was experienced with sex, but she had never imagined he would be this good. Every movement was practiced and skillful, every accompanying touch, grip of his palms on her thighs, designed to amplify her pleasure. And he was so into it, completely absorbed in her body, her movements, the arching of her back, the little rolls of her hips, her hand in his hair, and her sounds, the grunts and groans and whimpers. 

And then she felt it, the gentle gripping in her hips, the waves of bliss that accompanied them; she was close, she was so close, it was so _different_ from when she touched herself, somehow slower and softer and wider, fluttering through her like a flock of birds taking wing. She let out the loudest cry of the night, sinking onto her arched back, her other hand joining the first threaded through Asra’s hair, like he was the only thing that tethered her to this plane. 

To Iris’s dismay, Asra pulled back, breathless, his pants hot against her sensitive skin, his thumb replacing his tongue as he swirled it slowly against her clit. “Iris, can I...can I put my fingers inside you?” He whispered. “I promise, I promise it will feel good...” 

Iris cried her assent, nodding wildly, and with a low, delicious moan, Asra traced his two middle fingers around her labia, dipping into the slick that pooled from her. Iris was so close to coming, so aroused, and Asra was so gentle, that she hardly felt the first finger slip in until it was curled inside of her, wracking her hips wildly with unknown pleasure. With the second, Iris’s mind blanked, the only space she had was for the orgasm that shot through her, the feeling of being full, the feeling of Asra’s tongue slowing, working her through it, his delighted groan that she somehow heard over her own loud – _loud_ – cries of pleasure, the way, way her sex gripped his fingers over and over and over again. 

And then she was nothing, floating in the sea on her back, her normally feverish, panicking mind quiet and empty, even as her legs shook visibly and her frantic breath slowly returned to her. Asra didn’t take his eyes off of her, an enchanting smile lighting up every achingly beautiful feature as he kissed her quivering thighs, her wobbly knees, while she settled.

Then Asra was on the bed with her, laid down beside her, rubbing soft circles into her chest, his lips brushing against her ear. “Gorgeous, Iris, you did so good...” 

Iris couldn’t help but laugh softly. “You did it, not me. That was...I’ve never felt anything like that before. That good before.”

He nuzzled against her cheek; she could feel the spread of his lips as he smiled. “I just helped.” His hand stilled on her chest, fingers hovering over her steadying heartbeat. “We can stop now if you want. I don’t want to push you too much in one night.” 

Iris’s brows furrowed. “But you didn’t...” 

“That’s okay. Don’t worry about me – I’ll be fine.” He murmured. Iris believed him, but with his hips pressed against her thigh, she could feel the stiffness, the heat of his erection – it sent another delicious jolt of want through her, one that orgasms and kisses alone couldn’t slake. 

“Asra...” She searched for the words, biting her lip. “I want to make you feel good, too. I want to try… to try having you inside me.” 

To her surprise, Asra flushed at the words, eyes flitting away. “Are you sure? I don’t...this has been a lot today. We don’t need to rush.” 

Iris turned onto her side, her fingers trailing down the low surplice neckline of Asra’s white dress. How long had she wanted to touch the firmness of his chest, the ripple of his abs like this, and now it was hers, hers to explore, to caress, to grab and hold? “I want it. I want you.” The boldness of her words shocked her, but for the first time that night, she wasn’t blushing. “Do you want to? Do...do you want to have me?” 

Asra hummed in her ear. “Oh, I can’t say no to you, Iris.” He murmured, his hands on her waist now. He kissed her again, soft and slow, but this time, Iris surprised herself again when she pressed her tongue into the seam of his lips needfully. He opened his mouth to her without any hesitation, and then their tongues were touching, exploring, she was tasting her own ecstasy, she was pulling at the back of his dress, trying to lift it over his shoulders. 

Then they were sitting up, Asra shrugging his arms out of the dress, Iris helping him pull it down from his hips, oh, he was gorgeous, Iris ached all over to see him nude like this, the dusky, aroused nipples, the hard line of his hips, the round, flowing firmness of his thighs, the thick erection between them, flushed and red and long. Iris, emboldened, guided him back so he was seated against the pillows, the headboard, and she climbed into his lap as he eagerly spread his knees for her and she wrapped her legs around his waist. 

Asra chuckled, musically, a grin snaking across his features. “There’s no rush, Iris.” 

“But I want you.” She panted; she could feel his heat against her wetness, and the impossible fire of need surged through her – her body was rioting, screaming over any hesitation, any panic she'd felt before. She wanted, needed, him inside her _right now_. 

“I want you, too.” He crooned, his hands snaking down her back, each grabbing the soft fullness of her ass. “But there’s a few things we need to talk about first. I’m going to cast a spell on myself that will keep you from having my child. But if I come, do you want me to come inside you?” 

Iris bit her lip, flushing a little. “No. No, I don’t think I want that. Can you...” She swallowed heavily. “You could come on me instead, if you wanted. My chest, my stomach. Or I could...” 

Asra laughed now, loudly, resonantly, the deep dimples in his cheeks popping as he threw his head back. Iris blushed furiously, indignantly, but Asra recovered quickly and rubbed his forehead against hers soothingly. “No, I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you, Iris, it’s just...” He exhaled softly, almost a wistful, sad sigh; he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. “I would enjoy that.” 

“Okay.” Iris whispered, her hands coming up to his cheeks. “Was there anything else?” 

Asra drew in a shaky breath. “Just go slow.” He whispered; there was a soft flash of purple light, a heat that spread from his trunk that Iris could feel under her fingertips. “I...I want to savor this.” 

Iris nodded slowly, nuzzling her nose against his. “Okay.” Their lips were just brushing, Asra’s hands on her backside gripping tighter as she rocked experimentally against him, rubbing her lushness over his cock. He moaned, quietly, his mouth dropping into a sweet O, but Iris realized her lips were parted, too, her voice needy in her throat as he cleaved her. It was only a few rocks before he caught; Iris paused her movements to press her lips fully, hotly, on his, before she sank down languorously, grunting softly as he stretched her, filled her so perfectly. 

The sound Asra made nearly broke Iris’s heart, a low, tremulous groan, almost like a sob, that shook in his stomach. She would have stopped, would have asked him if he was okay, if he hadn’t whimpered softly, rapturously, “Oh...oh, Iris…” 

She ground her hips smoothly against his, and dense, electric shockwaves rolled through her, making her hum as she clutched to Asra desperately. She never, never expected having Asra, having anyone, inside her would feel this good, completely consuming her senses, only focusing on the movement, the sensation of him moving inside of her, the rub of skin on skin as his smooth pubis pressed against her still-sensitive clitoris. 

“Iris...” Asra whispered, his lips brushing against hers as they moved. “That feels so good, you’re doing so good...you’re so beautiful, I – I –” His voice caught his throat, and he bit his lip back, silencing the deluge that threatened to spill out of him in his ecstasy. 

Iris hardly noticed; she could already feel the slow crush of orgasm building up in her, her chest heaving and her shoulders shaking. It was torture to go slow when her body was screaming at her to ride him into oblivion, but his hands on her hips, guiding her, pulling her forward as he rolled his hips up to meet her, his lidded eyes, the pupils blown wide and wild as he panted, kept her pace steady as they made love.

Was it supposed to feel this familiar? Iris wondered as she gasped, as Asra groaned with delight. They moved so easily in tandem, as his hands drifted up to her back, his hips still moving with hers, kissing her the way she was already wild for. It was all so comforting, so good, so easy, so right, that she couldn’t understand why they had waited so long, why Asra had held back, when he looked at her like he had been waiting, aching, wanting this for so long, like he had, like he had _missed_ this...

When Iris finally, finally peaked, she snaked her hands up to Asra’s hair, gripping tightly as she arched her back, her entire body convulsing as she cried, “Asra, _Asra, **Asra**_...” over and over again, even as her body released her, as she slowed her hips, as she gasped breathlessly into Asra’s mouth, his sweet but greedy kisses nearly smothering her as he stared, drank in her every movement, every sound, his eyes cloudy with wonder, with adoration. 

She was still shaking when he lifted her again, laying her on her back and pressing his chest into hers; he slid back into her with ease, her sex completely soaked and slick. “Is this okay?” Asra murmured, his hips still. Iris nodded wildly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, her head still spinning with release. 

Asra pumped into her tentatively first, letting her grow used to the position; it was much deeper, and Iris whined at the sensation, both the deep and the pleasure, as she let her legs fall completely open, inviting him even further inside. Asra practically purred as he slowly, slowly ramped up his pace, until the flat was echoing with the sounds of their lovemaking. Iris was giggling, groaning, as she held on tight, mimicking things that Asra had said before, things that were true, so true, Iris knew it in her core, the depths that Asra was plunging, “That feels so good, I like that, Asra, _Asra_...”

He didn’t last much longer, biting his lip and groaning softly as he pulled out of Iris. He wrapped his hand around his own cock as he palmed himself to release, grunting and whimpering beautifully over and over as he came, hot and thick, over Iris’s breasts, her navel. 

They were both breathing so heavily, their shoulders and chests heaving as they came down, that Iris laughed softly at the sound, the sight, at the light in her lungs, her heart; she reached up to Asra’s chest, fingertips lingering over the swell of his breast before she found his heartbeat. “Your heart is pounding, Asra.”

He was the one who laughed now, a soft, genuine chuckle, the sweet dimples popping on his cheeks as he wrapped one hand around Iris’s. “You have that effect on me.” He murmured. In his other hand appeared a flannel rag; Iris could smell the warm water, scented with orange and cinnamon, before he pressed it delicately into the skin of her chest, cleaning her. “I can’t believe how beautiful you are.” 

Iris snorted. “Like this? Covered in cum?” 

“You’re glowing.” He responded, hardly a whisper. The soft strokes of the rag, his gentle, reverent touch through it, his violet eyes vibrating as he looked at her...a soft knowledge welled up in Iris, bittersweet and painful and sad.

“We did this before, didn’t we?” Iris murmured. “Before…” She let her hands trail up his chest to his cheek. “You waited for me to be ready.” 

His expression melted into a study in desolation. “I can’t answer that, Iris. You know I can’t.” 

“I know.” Iris bit her lip, surprised by the little tears that stung her eyes, threatened to undo her. “Thank you, Asra.” 

“For?” He asked quietly, magicking the rag into the ether. He laid himself down beside her in the bed, their bodies not quite touching, save for his hand on her cheek, his thumb tracing the outline of her lip. 

She turned to him, curling her body in his arms, pressing her lips into his collarbone as she nuzzled her damp hair into his neck. Hesitantly, he rested his lips in her hair, inhaling deeply, the rush of his breath stirring Iris. 

“For everything.” 

Iris could just feel Asra’s lips turn in her hair, the pained smile cracking his even façade. “I would do anything for you, Iris.”

A gentle pinprick of pain radiated from Iris’s forehead, her third eye, but she said nothing, inhaling the scent of Asra’s skin, seven counts in, seven counts out, as she pulled him closer to her. It was nothing, nothing compared to what he must feel. 

They fell asleep like that, laying backwards in the bed, Asra’s arms around Iris’s waist, his face in her hair, her face against his breastbone, their legs tangled like roots, their leveling hearts beating in unison.

*******

When Iris woke in the middle of the night, she was laying frontwards on the bed, on her side; she could feel Asra’s warmth, her entire back enveloped in the tender rise and fall of his chest. He must have repositioned her as she slept; her heart surged at the thought.

Nature called; she gently wrested herself from Asra’s arms, earning her a soft, sleepy grunt, almost desperate, before he uncoiled, one arm slipping under the pillows, his leg sliding up languidly like a mountain climber’s. Iris smiled at the sight of him in the moonlight, the sheets pooling around his hips, the muscular slope of his back, riddled with shadows, the way his lips parted with unknowable dreams. 

After Iris used the water closet and washed her face, she made to climb back into the bed, but she saw her skirt in a soft pile by the edge of the bed, undisturbed since it had dropped down from her knees hours before. With an impish smile, a cautious glance at Asra, she rummaged through the fabric for the pocket, fingers closing around the rose quartz, somehow still warm with her body’s heat. She looked at it for a moment in the moonlight, pale but glowing still, like the roses that grew just meters away in their garden, sweet but somehow melancholy. She crossed the room carefully, so the floorboards wouldn’t creak, to the large wardrobe. 

She pushed aside Asra’s collection of scarves for the sturdy shelf above the rack, searching for what she knew was hiding there, hidden from her, gathering dust on the back of the shelf. The lacquered box, black and gold inlay, the woman with the lavender robe, the peonies. Carefully casting a muffling charm, she lifted the box down and crouched, her fingers finding trick latches, the top springing open. It was chaotically full, of letters and pictures and watercolor paintings, pressed flowers, trinkets, a sparkling gold-flecked cork and a ribbon and blue feather, foreign coins, other gemstones, seashells. 

Quickly, quietly, she placed the rose quartz with the rest of the trinkets, careful not to touch, carefully ignoring the new surge of pain that sizzled in her head as she deftly snapped the lid shut and shoved the box back inside, banished once again to the dusty, forgotten shelf. She closed the wardrobe, seven breaths in, seven breaths out. When she crawled back into the bed, Asra’s arms wrapped sleepily around her; he pressed his lips into her hair and exhaled deeply, easily, relieved, as if he had been holding his breath all this time, waiting for her to return to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC:  
_half of me knows it's gonna get dark /  
but when you come around, I fall apart _
> 
> Thanks for reading, luvs.


	5. The Bluebird's Feather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asra and Iris do the thing in Muriel's bed.
> 
> Iris x Asra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Hozier - No Plan **
> 
> _ CW: No content warnings _

Before Iris even opened her eyes, her senses flooded with the familiar-unfamiliar smell of cedar roots, of hard-packed, fragrant dirt, of lingering myrrh, the fresh flush of spring rain. Her hand on her forehead swam up through her hair, her brow wrinkling as her eyes lazily opened, the images of yesterday blinking back to her. 

Her and Asra trekking through the southern forest, searching for his morel patch by the slow-moving, lazy part of the stream, even with the swollen floodwaters of spring, near the Chapel of Cedars. The sudden downpour, the late April rains bearing down hard on them as they ran, laughing, singing, playing, dancing, kissing, through the cool shower towards Muriel’s place. 

Sweet Muriel was so kind, if a little mortified, when Iris and Asra burst through his front door, laughing and tumbling; he been enjoying the stillness of the rain, whittling with Inanna at his feet, the steady drum of drops against the roots that held together his dugout. But they brought with them their exuberant, lovely chaos, stripping down from their sopping wet clothes until they were only halfway decent, Muriel blushing furiously as they huddled, shivering, clinging to each other, by the fire.

Iris stretched against the downy mattress, the soft blankets and furs that swaddled the nested bed. Asra lay sleeping at her side, his arms around her waist, his cheek against the sweet-scented vertebrae of her neck. At her gentle movement, he grunted, his voice low and sultry with sleep, pressing a little, long kiss, nothing more than a nudge of his warm lips, into the skin before sinking back into slumber. 

The rain never relented; Asra and Iris’s clothes dried by the fireside and what should have been the glow of afternoon was shrouded in melancholy gray. They found ways to pass the time – Iris played with Inanna, pressed her face into the complaisant she-wolf’s fragrant fur, a little unknown ache in her heart, while Muriel and Asra reminisced easily about the time they lived together in that very hut; though, in truth, it was Asra reminiscing, his gentle, teasing smile, the playful lilt of his voice, the innocent flutter of his eyelashes as Muriel huffed and pouted, annoyed but amused, obliging. 

Iris loved Asra like this; the warmth in his eyes, the relaxed way he moved through the little dugout in just his silk pants, the way the corners of his mouth turned, secretly pleased, when Muriel got out his runes and showed them to Iris, taught her their meanings, walked her through a few readings. He laughed and clapped when Muriel played his calace and Iris sang, _“The harder the rain, honey, the sweeter the sun...”_

Night wove through the trees like a startled deer, and Asra made them dinner, mushrooms and morels that Muriel had collected earlier that day, dandelion greens that they had found growing by the larder, cornmeal softened and sweetened with butter and milk from Asra’s satchel, enchanted to keep chill. Iris procured a bottle of wine from her bag, and when that was drunk, Muriel brought out a cask of ale that he’d brewed. 

The rest of the night was a blur; Iris remembered dancing and twirling through the little room, the slinky skirt of her white slip swirling around her hips as Muriel played every song he knew, folk dances and work songs and soulful laments, and she sang when she knew the words. She remembered they way Asra’s eyes, that familiar mischievous glint that sparkled in the low light of the fire, tracked her movements from his place at the table, his amber fingers carded through his cloudy curls. 

She remembered the way he threaded his arms around her waist and danced with her when the music got soft, low, almost mournful in its sweetness. She remembered Muriel deferring the bed to them, gathering a few of the furs by the fire and settling down on his side, facing away from them, giving them a modicum of privacy as they slipped together under the blankets, their bodies intertwining under the soothing hum of rain. 

Now, Iris realized as she sat up a little, glancing around the dugout, they were alone; the early morning sun lay fragmented and faint on the packed dirt floor, the hearth doused. She knew Muriel was an early riser, often walking the paths around the chapel, renewing the charms that protected it; she also knew he valued his solitude, and while he loved Asra, welcomed Iris, enjoyed their company, he needed time alone.

She shifted, rotating so she was facing Asra, winding her calf around his leg, her thigh draped over his hip. With a sigh, she whispered feathery kisses against the corners of his mouth, breathing, urging, him awake. It wasn’t long before his lips turned in the smallest smile against hers; lazily, he opened one eye, his even gaze starry through his snow-white eyelashes. 

“Good morning.” He murmured, the arm under her neck wrapped around her shoulders; with the other he dragged his fingertips against the sensitive, smooth skin on the underside of her thigh, sending a shiver through her that had her pressing into his chest. 

“We’re alone.” She hummed, her lips slipping down the aching arch of his amber neck, shards of skin gleaming in the cathedral of broken morninglight. 

“Ah?” He responded noncommittally; his voice was cool, but his hand was smoothing down the slope of Iris’s back, lazily tracing the bodice of her slip. His eyes were impish, teasing, as he smirked at her. “We don’t know when Muriel will return, do we?” 

Iris groaned in frustration, pressing her hips against his. When Iris and Asra had crawled into the musky, warm bed last night, Iris expected they would drop immediately into sleep, curled up in each other’s arms. But Asra had other plans, first kissing her softly, silently, their tongues swirling and his teeth grazing against the plush of her lips until she practically forgot her own name. When she was hot and shaking, he brushed his fingers over her ribs through her diaphanous slip, his thumbs circling her nipples; he even pulled down the neckline of her bodice to lick one, hushed and wet, pressing his lips into the curves of her breasts, until Iris wasn’t certain she could keep quiet any longer, her eyes flitting over her shoulder to Muriel’s imposing form, rising and falling slowly with the ease of sleep.

Asra teased and teased her until she thought she would burst, kissing her, touching her, his fingertips brushing against her most secret, sensitive places, the silk of her thighs, the crease of her hips, the small of her back, the long line of her neck. Then he leaned into her, his mouth hot against her ear, when he whispered, “I can’t wait to get you alone, Iris...when we get back to the shop...” 

Iris wanted to scream at the thought of waiting so long, through sleep and breakfasts and goodbyes, through the long trek through the forest, through the crush of the crowds in the Market district, the only contact their interwoven fingers, through the triplet click of the locks on the shop, for him to finally dip his fingers between her legs, to work her open with the expert touches of his hands, his lips, oh, his tongue, to take her, to spread her out and find his way home in her...but before she could even whimper, circle her hips against his, beg, he had fallen asleep, head nestled on her shoulder.

“He probably won’t be back until late morning.” Iris murmured, her lips on his ear now. He arched his neck under her touch, inhaling softly, sweetly; she could feel his erection, hot and hard from sleep, twitch under her. 

Still, he teased her, the hand on her thigh merely thumbing the lacy hem of her slip. “And what if he walks in on us?” 

Iris smirked, nuzzling her forehead against his temple as she nipped his earlobe, licked the quiet space behind it. “That’s half the fun, isn’t it?” 

He chuckled, not shivering, his breath not catching, his touches still lazy, intentionally frustrating; if Iris couldn’t feel the telltale press of his hips against hers, the insistent stiffness between them, she would think he was turning her away. But Asra was unflappable, preternatural in his control of his lust, his body; when they had made out last night, where Iris had been a desperate mess, hardly able to form a rational thought with surging desire, Asra was unhurried, masterful, cruelly cool. “Would you like that, Iris?” 

Iris’s eyes flew wide as he pressed her back into the bed, his hand on her shoulder, as he swung his hips over hers, arching over her on his hands and knees like a cat, the sunlight tangling and playing in the riot of his white curls. He gently dragged his teeth down the length of her neck, his lips finding the placed where her collarbones met, her neck dipped and hollowed. 

“Would you like it if Muriel walked in on us, my face between your legs, your cunt rosy and dripping and pleading for me?” He nipped Iris’s neck as he undid the stays of her slip, her breasts spilling out from white cotton as he pushed it down from her shoulders. “Would you like it if Muriel saw you on your hands and knees, your ass in the air, you begging me to fuck you harder?” 

His gaze traced over her bosom, nipples hardening in the cool morning air, the flush on her cheeks already spreading to the creamy skin under her clavicle. “Would you like it if Muriel saw your chest painted with my seed?” 

Iris was about to answer, the shuddering cry of yes catching her throat, when Asra laughed once, softly, his grin unbearable as he traced the outline of one of her breasts lovingly before pulling the cloth back up over her chest. “No.” He said, only half to himself. “You’d both die of embarrassment, I think.” 

“Asra...” Iris whined, twining her arms up his bare back, nails finding the rise of the muscles that girdled his spine. “Please...” 

He chuckled again, his playful smirk unbearable. “What’s got you so worked up this morning, Iris?” 

She snorted, letting her head fall back onto the soft mattress, the bundle of furs that served as a pillow. “You did this.” She muttered darkly, before biting her lip and suppressing a groan; Asra’s hand was snaking up her thigh, under her slip, slowly, tortuously. 

Asra’s brow arched. “What, from last night?” He purred, brushing an errant wisp of hair away from Iris’s eyes as his fingertips trailed over the inside of her legs, gripping softly at the plushness where her thighs were the thickest. “From just a few kisses?”

Iris bit her lip and summoned her voice to protest, but then she arched as his fingertips ghosted over her aching sex, cupping it gently. “You’re already so wet...” He hummed thoughtfully, his eyes growing heavy, lidded.

“Asra, please...” She whimpered, digging her nails into the skin between his shoulderblades. “Please don’t make me wait...” 

“So impatient...” He murmured, but then he was kissing her, their lips melting together as he withdrew his hand, peeling up the layers of her slip, baring the velvety skin to him. The heat that unfurled from Iris ached as he pressed his hips to her, the silk caressing her, the heat of his cock unbearable. “You know, you were teasing me too, last night...watching you dance, the way you moved your hips, the way you looked at me...I wanted you then and there.”

“So this is revenge?” She managed to whimper as he dipped down to kiss the valley of her breastbone. 

His lips turned against her skin, his eyes wicked as they flitted up to hers. “No, _haté abdi_.” He muttered, his breath hot against her skin. “I just love the sounds you make when I tease you.”

With a swift movement, catlike, he was between her legs, one hand laced under her knees and pushing them back into her chest. Iris gasped as he kissed the graceful soles of her feet, his eyelashes fluttering with pleasure as he laved the space between her toes, taking the big toe into his mouth and sucking gently. 

Iris squirmed and whimpered as he sucked and licked every toe, his other hand smoothing down the backs of her thighs to her flushed vulva, framed beautifully by the fullness of her contorted legs. He couldn’t help but touch her, fingertips relishing the warm slick that glistened, tempting, inviting, over each delicious crease and dimple. He shuddered with delight, Iris moaning with satisfaction, as he slipped a finger into her and her warmth fluttered around his touch. 

“Iris...” He groaned, his voice low and throaty, dark, and Iris’s heart surged. He released her toes from his soft lips with a lewd, wet pop, kissing her crossed ankles, her muscled calves, the shapely pools of her thighs; then his mouth was on her sex, his tongue greedy as it lapped noisily against her, his fingers slipping in and out of her as they curved against her sweetest place. 

She sighed, moaned, whimpered, her voice still reedy with need as Asra pleasured her, his grip tightening around her knees, pushing her hips further up off of the mattress, his pace increasing, increasing, until it was frenetic, desperate, unabashed. Iris was shaking, one hand threaded through her own long hair, the other curled on the furs by her ear, fingers twitching and clenching as her orgasm crept and built, wracking her hips, her heart hammering in her chest. 

With a final, firm press of Asra’s tongue over her clit, a determined thrust of his skilled fingers, Iris came apart under him, crying out his name through her orgasm that crashed over her like the surf of the Courageous sea, rolling, wild, primal. Asra groaned as he kissed her sex, every single silky fold, every blooming nerve, as he slowed his fingers, her cunt still pulsing around them as he pressed further into her. 

“By the Gods...” He chuckled as Iris gasped for air, her vision blinking gently back to her. Purple light washed over the room like watercolors, lavender flooding her vision as Asra pushed the waistband of his silken pants down around his hips, erection finally springing free. The tip pressed gently against her labia, tight with her legs wrapped together as they were; they both quivered as Asra hooked her knees over one of his shoulders, pressing a kiss into the outside of one as he leaned forward over her. 

Iris whimpered as he kissed her wide mouth, hot, hard, needful, and murmured, “Iris, are you…?” 

“Yes!” She practically sobbed, raising her pelvis to meet his; he pressed forward, cleaving through her into her lush, dark, wild, wet – he gasped against her mouth, his eyes fluttering closed and his neck arching back as he grasped her beautiful hips, his fingernails digging into her skin as his hands shook. 

“It’s…tight...” He panted, a flush finally, finally, painting his cheeks as he pressed his forehead to Iris’s, his mouth falling open as he slowly thrust into her; her hands snaked into his hair, grasping him closer, her back arching as he plunged into her, drawing from her a choked, desperate whine. 

He moved slowly at first, groaning at the way her sweetness clung to him, caressed him tightly with each gentle thrust; Iris purred at every movement, every delicious stroke that stoked the insatiable fire that roared in her belly. As he increased his pace steadily, steadily, his hips noisily slapping into hers, she gyrated against him as best she could with her legs together over his shoulder, her sounds wanton and wild. 

This was their pace for many minutes, Iris arching, Asra bucking, until his breath shuddered in his throat, hot against her bare neck, and Iris thought it was over, he was going to pull out and come all over her, but he grasped her hips roughly and wrenched himself out of her, flipping her over onto her hands and knees. She arched her back as he groped the swell of her ass and spanked it loudly, drawing from her a little whimper, a delighted groan from him, as he pressed back into her, spreading her legs around his knees. 

He was going so much deeper now, so deep that Iris felt like she was being split apart around him, his girth, his length, but it felt so good, so pleasurable; she was moaning like a whore for him as she did just what he said she would, dipping lower onto her elbows, her cheek pressed to the down mattress, smelling so wrongly of myrrh, of cedar, and whimpering, “Asra...harder…please, harder...” 

She expected him to chuckle, to tease her, but he just groaned, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise and slammed into her, bucking against her like a teenager with his ferocity, his breath gasping, beautiful, unraveled; Iris couldn’t help but smirk. This was how he was, so even and cool and in control during foreplay, working Iris up until she couldn’t bear his tantalizing touches any longer; but then, when he was inside her, moving with her, he was single-minded, all pretense and mystery discarded. 

“Heart...my sweet heart...” He grunted, his eyes rolling with unadulterated bliss as his voice caught, rose, broke, with each powerful thrust; Iris arched her back and moaned as he plunged into her. It wasn’t long, more than a moment, before she was clenching around him, her fists clenched in the furs as she shuddered, whimpered, through her full-body orgasm. A warmth flooded her as her hips gyrated against his, and she immediately understood that he missed his tell, the series of low grunts, the ecstatic cinch of his core, that preceded his orgasm; he was spilling into her, filling her with each thrust, each pump drawing from him a soft, ritual cry, a whispered groan, a flutter of his long, bright eyelashes. 

Then he was pulling out of her, kissing her back, the delicate taper of her waist, the bowing swell of her hips, then his tongue slipping over her wet, slick anus before sinking home into her sex, lapping at his own release as Iris moaned, whimpered at the overstimulation. But Asra was gentle, his tongue laving tenderly over her bloom, her clit, her lips, as they seeped with his hot cum. 

“Iris...” He groaned into her labia as he licked her one final time, swallowing the delicious mixture of her pleasure and his own release; his fingers snaked up her hips to her waist, drawing her back down into the bed, nestled against the curve of his body, still quivering with pleasure. “Iris, you did so good...” 

She hummed softly, arching her back against him as his large palm wound, warm, against her ribs. She turned her head towards him so he could lean in and kiss him, their tongues tangling, their embrace long and delicious as they tasted each other, basking in the golden glow of the lengthening morning, the sharpening light, the lightness of their hearts, the joy of their togetherness. 

There was a sudden crunch of metal in the latch on the door as it lifted. Bright light flooded the little hut and was then obscured by Muriel’s massive frame, arms laden with far more firewood than needed to stoke the flames for the morning. An image flooded Iris’s mind, of Muriel furiously chopping wood at the stump not far from the hut, his sculpted cheeks flushed, his eyes wide with mortification, as he tried to focus on the rhythm of the axe swinging, the split of wood, rather than the sounds coming from his home, his bed. The blush on Iris’s cheeks burned as Asra’s arms wrapped around her, pulling the largest fur up around their shoulders, even as he sat up slightly on his elbow, greeting Muriel with a soft, sleepy hum. 

Muriel grunted in response, his lips pushed outward in an embarrassed pout, averting his eyes from the embracing lovers. “Needed more firewood.” He offered in lame excuse, the tips of his ears a bright, bright red behind the veil of his long, long hair. 

“Let us make you breakfast, at least.” Asra offered, his voice slow and syrupy, whether sweetened from the release of orgasm or his faux-sleep, Iris didn’t know. Muriel turned back to the hearth, stoking the fire as Asra rose, pulling his pants up around his hips as he slipped out of the bed, surreptitiously pulling Iris’s slip back down around her legs. “For letting us spend the night here.”

Asra and Iris made a breakfast of fried eggs and shredded potatoes, spiked with crushed tomatoes and dried peppers, garlic and shallots from the allium patch Muriel cultivated near the stream that cut through his little garden. Iris blushed softly when Asra kissed her temple, his lips lingering as she sliced the potatoes and he coddled the aromatics in butter; when he offered her a taste of the sauce, his lips parted ever so gently as she licked the spoon, told him it needed a touch more salt, or lemon; while they sat at the table together, waiting for the potatoes to soften, Asra pulled Iris into his lap on the stool, slotting his chin in the dip of her shoulders, breathing in her scent, amplified from their lovemaking, as he chatted with Muriel, who averted his eyes with another furious blush. 

Their breakfast was mostly silent; Muriel mumbled his thanks when Iris handed him the plate, and grumbled soft praise at the taste of the food. There wasn’t much more need for talk as Asra and Iris dressed, gathered their things; Muriel pressed more morels, gathered that morning, into Iris’s arms in a woven basket, and Iris felt a soft swell of appreciation for him, standing on her tiptoes just to lay an affectionate hand on his shoulder. 

Asra wrapped Muriel in what would have been a bonebreaking hug for anyone else. “Thank you, Muri.” He crooned, voice muffled against the roughspun linen of Muriel’s loose shirt. “For your hospitality.” 

“’S fine.” Muriel’s gaze darted away to the dark corner of the dugout. “This...was your home once...” 

Iris’s heart twisted a little as they dropped their embrace, but Asra smiled gently, laughed once. “You’re welcome at the shop any time, you know.” 

Muriel’s features flooded again with color. “I don’t want to intrude.” 

“Friends never intrude.” Iris said softly, her smile warm as her hand slipped into Asra’s. Muriel only flushed darker as Asra and Iris turned, waving, and stepped out onto the path, shrugging their cloaks closer against the spring chill. 

“Sweet Muri.” Iris murmured once the trees had fully obscured the dugout, squeezing Asra’s hand in thought. “Do you think we embarrassed him?” 

“Hm?” Asra’s eyes snapped back to Iris; he had been far away, she realized, but he was here with her now, smirking devilishly. “Oh, definitely. He’s always been a bit shy, but when it comes to sex, well...” Iris’s eyes flew wide, and Asra must have seen the worry painted on her face; he chuckled, taking her hand in his, fingers intertwining. “He’ll be fine, Iris. He’s seen worse.” 

Iris raised an eyebrow, laughing once, a gentle huff. “Worse?” 

Asra shrugged. “We lived together for a long time. I sowed my oats when I was your age. Of course, most people didn’t want to make the trek all the way out here even for sex, but some folks...” He smiled. “It’s not like Muriel didn’t have his trysts. He was just more secretive about them.” 

Iris raised her eyebrows in surprise. “It’s hard to imagine Muriel being...interested in anyone.” 

At this, Asra laughed, his eyes bright, knowing. “No, he’s not one for making the first move. But there were plenty of people who wanted to climb that mountain.” 

Iris’s expression shifted, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Oh? Did you...climb that mountain?” She teased, her voice slippery and sweet.

Asra turned to her, his cool smile wicked. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, starchild.” He replied. 

The images flitted across Iris’s eyes, bright and fantastical, tawny skin tangled with dusky blushes, the desperate, exploratory fucking of teenagers – Asra straddling Muriel’s hips, bucking and panting as Muriel’s fingers dug into his thighs, Muriel kneeling in front of Asra, ringed fingers fisted in that curtain of sable hair as Asra’s head rolled back, his mouth wide around a lusty moan as the muscles of Muriel’s thighs flexed and worked, thrusting with frightening strength – 

A soft sigh brought Iris back. She watched Asra’s eyes warm, soften, as his gaze flew to the horizon, flitting across the cedars, their branches gold-dipped and leaves electric green in the midmorning glow. He took a deep lingering breath, and Iris found herself breathing with him, taking in the soft living scent of the loam, the heady cedarwood, the whispered ease of spring’s first wildflowers. 

“Do you miss it?” She asked him quietly, after a moment.

Asra regarded her; his expression was even, clouded now in his gentle mystery. “Miss what, Iris?” 

“Living out here. With Muriel. Away from the city.” 

Asra hummed, nodding almost imperceptibly, fingers running through his hair. “I would be lying if I said I didn’t, I guess. The city can be overwhelming, and out here...we could just be ourselves. Practice magic, live our lives. Not worry about others, their pity, their cruelty.” He squeezed her palm, reassuring. “But I found something that made the city worth returning to.” 

Iris snorted, batting her eyelashes coyly. “And what was that?” 

Asra just smirked, even as his gaze roved over her, sparkling with something secret, something sweet; he squeezed her hand, and said nothing more. 

For a while, they were quiet, only the whispers of the forest to guide them down the narrow path through the needled valleys between the cedars, their fingers still intertwined as they wove their way through the trees. When they reached a little dell cut through by one of the streams that fed the city’s aqueducts, soft, stuttered birdsong lilted above them; Iris looked up, only to see a pair of bluebirds cuddled together on one of the wide, fragrant branches. They took to wing, two dashes of bottle blue through the chapel’s verdant canopy, leaving behind only one shocking feather, fluttering to the ground. 

Asra turned back to watch as Iris outstretched her hand, her palm towards the sky; his breath caught, quiet, sudden, in his throat. Her silhouette – the sun filtering through her blonde hair, cascading down her shoulders like ribbons of white silk, her chin lifted, neck long, the peasant sleeves and ruched bust of her creamy floral dress, the long, looped stays drifting in the breeze that rustled through needled boughs, her back arched, poised, waiting, as the feather drifted into her palm, no longer than her pinky finger. 

He let her linger there, her gaze tracing the feather’s gentle curve, before her fingers closed around it and she stowed it in the little satchel slung around her hips. Asra’s hand left hers, trailing up to the small of her back as he leaned into her. 

“When I lived out here, Iris.” He began, his voice low in her ear. “All we wanted was to survive, in a world that didn’t seem to care if we were dead or alive.” He paused, and Iris leaned her head against his cheek, her eyes downcast, her heart open. “I read the cards, but I didn’t believe there was any rhyme or reason to the world. Who was happy. Who suffered. Who had power. All I could do was forge a path away from the entropy.” 

“What changed?” Iris murmured, touching the back of Asra’s bare arm, fingertips lingering on the sweetness of his skin. 

Iris couldn’t see Asra’s face; maybe he was smiling, maybe not. “The World gave me a future to look forward to.” 

He smoothed down her hair, drew her to him, pressed his lips to hers. They kissed, softly, the birdsong echoing in the distance, before the World called to them in her gentle, practical voice, drawing them apart, apart, forward and away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC: Y'all don't get super horny listening to Wasteland, Baby? Can't relate. _


	6. The Rose Petal Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Julian and Asra blow off steam. 
> 
> Julian x Asra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Perfume Genius - Pop Song **
> 
> _ CW: ROUGH sex, kinky sex, like y'all know what's up _
> 
> Everything is SSC, consent and negotiation is mandatory y'all <3

The note Julian clutched was succinct, only two words – _9, tonight_. Short enough that Julian had memorized it, easily, with only one glance at the childish, shock-straight script, and still, it fluttered between his gloved hands as Julian wound through the streets of the Market district, his cloak billowing in the sharp, late-September chill. 

He knew the way without thinking – he had been slipping away to the Indigo Child for nearly three months now – but the path had always felt strangely familiar to him: the paving stones broken with decades of hooves, of wheels, of feet; the makeshift bridges over the canals; the shops, abandoned for the night, like the gaping mouths of the sleeping. He passed the tea-seller’s, one of the only stalls still open, the welcome scents of spearmint and green teas and sugar kissing him softly – the owner, a kindly old women whose skin was as dark and ashy as ink, nodded knowingly as Julian passed her with an absentminded wave. He flushed, slightly, at being recognized, even as he quickly hopped up the steps to the clandestine magic shop, the lantern still burning despite the hour. 

He didn’t knock, knowing it would be, yes, open, no need for the key – the thick door swung forward under his quick fingers, and he slipped inside, hand wrapped around the crystal doorknob so it would shut with hardly a thud. Still, Asra, ears like a fox, heard him shadow in, the magicked quill pausing on the page of the ledger as he looked up from the shelf where he was taking inventory. A snakelike smile just turned the corners of his full mouth as he surveyed Julian, flushed from the walk, from the cold. 

“You’re early.” He said, his voice soft, but pointed, as he shelved a jar of some magical ingredient, dark purple and fuzzy and perhaps undulating in its glass jar, and Julian suppressed a small shudder. “Tea?” 

Julian could barely formulate an answer before the kettle drowsed from the hearth and skidded gently on the table, where two cast-iron cups were waiting. The flustered doctor said nothing as he stripped off his cloak and waistcoat before sinking into the booth, his long limbs sprawling. The kettle poured itself into both of the cups, a fragrant, moony blend of rose petals, chamomile, lavender, one that made Julian’s stomach drop even as he lifted the cup to his lips. The tea tasted like a sadness he couldn’t quite name, even as he listened to Asra carefully finish inventory, review his notes, close the thick ledger with a satisfied sigh.

Julian tensed, his eyes darting to the hearth as Asra appeared from around the corner where the counter, the shop door, the front shelves, were housed – with a little hum, the young magician unwound his scarf from his neck and hung it on one of the hooks by the mantle, then crooned something softly in his mother tongue – Nuru, Julian knew – to the shadow that slinked across his shoulders. Faust, the too-friendly ball python, slithered liquidly down his legs and disappeared into the shadows, and Julian felt a soft flush of affection color his cheeks. Even after all this time, Faust still made him uncomfortable – especially considering her habit of squeezing his arms, his legs, in the middle of the night, searching for human heat. 

Asra turned, the firelight dancing across his fine features, his snowy hair, making Julian’s breath catch in his throat – he quickly composed himself as Asra sank into the seat across from his, lifting the cup between three fingers and taking a tender sip. His stark eyelashes fluttered, and he inhaled softly, before letting the cup settle into his palm. “How was the palace today, Ilya?” He asked quietly, his low voice velvety and smooth, violet eyes trained on Julian’s flushed face. 

“Ah...” Julian bit his lip, took another sip of the sweet, fragrant tea. “I’d rather not...” 

A hum, almost inaudible. “I understand. I’m sorry.” Asra murmured. “Would you rather take your mind off of it?” 

Julian’s hands shook as he set the cup down, his throat suddenly dry, his voice failing; he flushed as Asra set his cup down, too, the pupils slowly widening, like violets unfurling in the first sun of spring, a secret hidden in plain sight. “You know the rules, Ilya.” He said quietly, a subtle edge in his voice now as one corner of his lip turned, as he rested his chin against his knuckles.

Julian swallowed, hard. “Yes.” 

Asra chuckled, once, nothing more than a soft, derisive huff of breath. “Yes?” Both corners now, that gentle smirk, that infuriating, infatuating smile, slipping across his honeyed features.

The shudder that ran down Julian’s spine was electric, and he found himself biting his lip, the seat of his pants suddenly feeling very, very tight. “Yes, master.” 

“Very good, honey.” Asra purred, leaning forward – his ringed fingers snaked under Julian’s chin, nudging it upwards, the thumb and the mother finger digging into the sharp angles of his jaw. “Now, what to do with you tonight…?” 

Julian could feel the muscles of his neck straining, his Adam’s apple bobbing, the blood rushing in his ears. “I’ve been good...” He managed to whine. “I did as you said...” 

Asra raised a jaunty, arched brow. “Did you now?” He crooned, his voice deep and heady. “I’m a little surprised. I didn’t think you’d last the whole week.” 

Julian’s whimper was pathetic, he knew, but he was already hard, his erection straining, aching, begging. “It...it was torture.” 

“Oh, but wouldn’t you rather have my hand wrapped around your cock than your own?” Asra’s voice was wicked now, and he was smiling; but his eyes, his eyes, were hard and sharp, icy – they made Julian’s head spin. “Then again, you are a desperate little slut, and one hand is probably good as another.” His eyes narrowed now. “I wonder what you would do for me tonight, just to get off?” 

Julian moaned as Asra’s hand around his throat tightened just a little, dangerous, dangerous. “Anything! I swear, please, I’ll do whatever...whatever you want...” 

“Anything, Ilya? _My_.” Asra’s tone immediately shifted as he shoved Julian’s face away. “Get on your knees, then.” He growled. 

Julian’s knees hit the worn wood floor of the shop with no grace, his hands flying behind his back as he shuffled forward to where Asra sat, one sturdy leg now crossed over the other. Asra chuckled darkly. “So eager...you must really be desperate...” 

Julian groaned through closed lips, his cheeks, his neck, the shoulder that had slipped loose from his billowing shirt, already flushed. “Just tell me what to do, Asra.” He whimpered. 

Asra said nothing, his eyes still sharp, icy, distant, as he unfurled one leg, the sole of his booted foot notching into the knob of Julian’s shoulder. With just enough pressure, he forced Julian down until his face was centimeters away from the other boot. 

“Lick it clean, Ilya.” 

Another electric shudder, harder, darker, as Julian leaned forward, his hands still behind his back, and kissed the warm, worn leather before dragging his tongue against it, the tang of salt, the grit of dirt, the inexplicable bitterness, sharp, stinging, of the city’s detritus. He looked up at Asra as he cleaned the boot in long, lapping strokes, the tangled darkness in the magician’s eyes shooting straight to his cock, straining, coiled, in his leggings. 

Asra hummed, leaning on his elbow, tapping two amber fingers against his jaw, looking almost bored. Oh, he was beautiful, so beautiful that it was painful to look at him, even like this, where Julian belonged, on his knees licking his boots – so beautiful that when Asra appeared to Julian in his dreams, his swollen, parted lips sunk around his cock, Julian thought he was an angel. And when Asra looked at him like that, eyes narrowed and dark, the dimples in his cheeks only just peeking through around an amused smile...Julian could hardly form a coherent thought, other than to submit. 

“Do you even know how pathetic you look on your knees, Ilya? How you blush like a schoolboy when I ask you to do something humiliating?” Asra’s smirk was wicked now. “Yet you throw yourself into it like a dockside whore. You love this, don’t you, you filthy slut?” 

Julian nodded, his tongue long as it laved now over the grommets of Asra’s laces – a mistake, a mistake that cost him the heel of Asra’s other boot digging painfully into his collarbone. 

“If I have to remind you of the rules again, Ilya, I’ll have to really punish you.” 

The doctor whined – he could feel the heat searing his cheeks now, the stretch of his spine, the seam between his legs. He nudged his cheek against the other boot, wordlessly begging. “Yes, master...” 

Asra shifted his weight, the other boot now on the floor. “Oh, you want the other one too? What a good boy.” And Julian dove in, his shoulders and core shaking now as he held himself aloft, whimpering and moaning as he grew more frenzied, depraved and desperate, just as Asra said…

A flash, of something, an image like a mirage – a leg draped over his shoulder, the skin creamy and supple, heavenly against his cheek. The other leg was bent in front of him, one of his hands wrapped around the soft swell of calf, the other cupped under the heel as he lifted the foot gently to his mouth, lips just brushing against a graceful arch. A wild giggle, a woman’s, her familiar voice girlish and high as her leg jerked, nerves jumping with pleasure as Julian kissed his way to her ankle – 

And then it was gone, forgotten, as Julian reverently kissed the wet leather of Asra’s boots, lips dragging across the arch before he looked up, awaiting Asra’s next command. 

Asra tutted. “It’ll have to do for now, won’t it?” His chilly gaze flitted down to the seat of Julian’s pants, the cotton hiding hardly anything. “Rock hard, and I haven’t even touched you. Could you come untouched tonight, I wonder?” Asra’s ringed fingers were in Julian’s hair now, tugging him upwards, his neck long and arched as the doctor hissed with beloved pain. “You’ve been so good, I’ll let you choose. Do you want to choke on my cock, or do you want me to stuff you full until you’re screaming?” 

Julian whimpered as his cock twitched. “Master, please...” 

Even his teeth were gorgeous, Julian thought, as Asra smiled widely – he imagined those same teeth sinking into his neck, his thighs, the backs of his shoulders as he was punished from behind. “Oh, you don’t want both, do you? So greedy...” 

The magician stood abruptly, jerking Julian upright on his knees – his thumbs were sunk into his silken pants, tugging the waistband down so it hugged the tops of his thighs, cock springing free – Gods, that cock was perfect, delicious, thick and flushed, already beading with leak. Something sinuous, warm, slithered against Julian’s wrists, across his shoulders, around his neck – red silk rope, warmed by the fire, tightening across his skin as he shuddered, as it bound his hands behind his back, his shoulders already sore and protesting blissfully as Asra’s other hand threaded down Julian’s cheek to his chin, drawing him closer. 

“If you want both, though...” Asra purred. “You’re going to have to beg properly for them.” 

Julian gasped, then, as the rope threaded down further, down his meridian, twisting and knotting at his waist, coiling across the cut creases of his hips – where had his clothes gone, he wondered absently, his skin prickling in the chill, tingling where the rope soothed by it, arcing under and up, oh Gods, between his legs, his cleft, and up his back, knotting, knotting, until he could barely squirm. Asra lifted an eyebrow, eyes glittering with amusement. 

“I’m waiting, honey.”

It was in moments like these, and truly only moments like these, that Julian was thankful his mouth could move even when his brain was scrambled with pleasure. “Master, master, please...” He whined, voice stammering as the silk continued to glide across his skin, making him shiver. “I...I n-need it, I can’t..._molim, molim_, master, please...” A tear of desperation sliced down his nose. “Let me taste you, let me please you...I want to please you, master...”

Asra hummed, a genuine, satisfied smile brightening his cheeks before his expression cooled, chilly demeanor restored. “It’s like you were made to beg, honey.” He purred, threading the fingers of both hands into Julian’s hair and guiding his mouth, open, panting, to his cock. 

Julian dove forward, wrapping his lips and tongue around the tip, lapping at the slit, savoring the delicate musk of precum, before sucking Asra all the way down, gagging loudly as it smoothed down his throat. Asra moaned, grip tightening in Julian’s hair as he began to thrust, slowly at first – but when he looked down, saw the twin streams of tears cutting through the flush of Julian’s cheeks, felt the doctor’s throat tighten, again, as Julian choked, whimpered, spittle glistening on his lips, he quickly set a brutal pace. Julian could do nothing but lean into him, relax his throat, and let Asra take him, relishing the way Asra’s nails scraped against his scalp, pulled his messy hair, as he held him in place. 

And this is what he wanted, isn’t it? Asra flushed and panting gloriously as he fucked himself to ecstasy, using Julian, his shoulders and wrists aching, his jaw screaming, his throat raw. Asra’s grunts, little half-formed words, staccato moans, “_Saé_, Gods, yes, Ilya, honey...” were music to his ears, more tantalizing than anything he had ever heard before –

This time, a sound, full-throated and delightful, a wavering cry of bliss – thighs wrapped around his shoulders, shaking, his chin soaked, his tongue buried in delicious wildness as more lovely cries, soft gasps and pants and moans of his name, _Ilya, Ilya darling…_ echoed across the little flat – 

Julian whimpered as every nerve rang electric with sweetness, then sweet relief; his core spasmed and he came, his spend covering his navel, his chest, even the underside his chin. Asra, with a dark chuckle, slowed his hips, tugging Julian’s head back, his mouth off of him, as he flushed, whined, head spinning with euphoria. 

“What a good little slut...” Asra purred in his low, dark baritone. “But you made such a mess...” He swiped his warm fingertips across Julian’s chest, hand coming away dripping and pearly. He pushed his fingers into Julian’s wide mouth without ceremony, and Julian licked, sucked them desperately, whining at the taste of his own release. 

Asra tsked softly, even as his wicked grin widened. “You’ll just have to stay like that until I’m done with you, I think.” He growled softly as he lowered himself onto his knees, now face-to-face; his hand flitted lightly down Julian’s chest, quickly growing tacky, uncomfortable, the planes of his muscled stomach, still spasming, to where he was growing achingly hard again. Asra’s lips crushed into Julian’s, the first and only kiss of the night, bruising, hot, primal, and Asra’s fingers slipped between Julian’s spread knees. 

Rough, he was so rough, pushing his oiled fingers inside with hardly any teasing, making Julian cry out at the breach. Asra’s teeth were sunk into his neck, sucking hard, marking him as Julian panted and writhed around the fingers fucking into him – at the third, he whined, “Asra, Asra, _med_, please...” 

A loud smack, colors popping in the corners of Julian’s eyes, cheek stinging where Asra had backhanded him with his free hand. “You know the rules, Ilya.” He hissed, hand on his throat now, forcing the chin up. “Do you want to beg me properly this time?” 

Julian’s head was spinning, blissful, as he gasped shakily. “Please, master...” He pleaded. “I want you inside of me...fuck me raw, fuck me senseless… please, oh please, I..._a-ah_, oh Gods, shit, fuck, oh...” He couldn’t help but bounce himself a little on Asra’s fingers, his voice cracking as they brushed against the tender bulb of his prostate. 

“You want to bounce, honey?” Asra purred. “Oh, we can do that.” 

Julian found himself flipped around, his back pressed to Asra’s still-clothed chest, one hand wrapped loosely around his neck, teeth digging into his shoulder; he groaned as Asra removed his fingers, rutting backwards desperately, only to find the searing hot tip of Asra’s cock. The dark room, the embers dying low now, filled with soft purple light, like smoke, and Asra’s fingers tightened ever so slightly around Julian’s neck, even as his voice softened: “Are you ready, Ilya? Is this okay?” 

Julian nodded, his flush furious now, before he remembered. “Yes, master.” 

“Good, Ilya, honey, so good.” Asra cooed, and Julian sank down with a muffled shout, the stretch unbearable, too much and not nearly enough. Asra’s fingers traced the edge of Julian’s hip, the meat of his thigh, then spanked it hard before digging in, urging him to move. 

And Julian moved, riding Asra desperately, rolling his hips backwards so each thrust drew from him a ragged moan as Asra smoothed against his prostrate. Julian was a mess, panting and gasping and babbling, and Asra wasn’t much better off, his shallow breath hot against Julian’s shoulder, cloudy hair plastered to his temples, voice low, primal, as he grunted, “Just like that, you dirty cockslut, you could ride me all day and still beg for more, but you do it so good, it feels...so good...”

Julian’s nerves were still raw, singing, and it wasn’t long before he was whimpering, whining, begging, the spring inside him coiled so tightly he thought he would collapse around himself, like a black hole. “A-Asra, master, I’m – can I – ”

“Come for me, Ilya.” Asra growled in his ear, teeth grazing against the shell of his ear – then his voice broke, a series of shuddering gasps as Julian was filled with searing warmth, as his ringed hand wrapped around Julian’s cock and worked furiously. It wasn’t needed – Julian’s orgasm was already tearing through him, ripping wanton groans deep from Julian’s belly as he came, hot and thick, over Asra’s hand, whimpering at the sudden overstimulation. 

Exhausted, spent, panting, he collapsed back onto Asra, who caught him with grace, his cheek against the shivering doctor’s neck. “Very good, Ilya...” The ropes around Julian’s shoulders and wrists slackened, uncoiling around him like shed snakeskin, and heat washed over his belly as Asra’s clean hand drifted over his pubis, gold light spinning from his fingertips, sinking into the skin like the sun’s warmth, the pain ebbing away. Slowly, carefully, he unseated himself from Julian, drawing out another pitiful whimper.

“Sshhh...” Asra’s hands were gentle as they urged Julian to his feet, wrapped a blanket from some chaotic corner of the shop around his shoulders. “Let’s get you upstairs.” 

The bed was unmade, the covers practically thrashed apart, but its softness, its distinctive scent, oranges, cinnamon, woodsmoke, something else that Julian could barely name, was welcome as he slid between the sheets, guided onto his back by Asra, who cleaned him up with gentle wipes of a warm dampcloth. He was mostly silent, his eyes faraway, but Julian had long learned that this was Asra’s way, tender but distant, caring but careful, so he stayed quiet, too, as his breathing lengthened, evened, relishing the whisper of intimacy. 

Satisfied, Asra whisked the cloth to the ragbin, standing from the bed, shucking his sweaty clothes and shrugging on a slinky robe, royal blue, roses and lilies and forget-me-nots crowning the shoulders, the hem. “I’ll put some tea on.” 

Julian groaned in assent, his head still spinning, his eyelashes fluttering, his limbs deliciously leaden – soon, the kettle was whistling softly, the little flat flooded with the scent of the same tea, chamomile and rose petals and lavender. The bed sank again, and Julian felt something warm nudge his cheek – the silken swell of Asra’s thigh as he leaned over Julian to place the steaming teacup on the bedside table. “Don’t let it get cold, Ilya.” He warned softly, but Julian turned, resting his cheek on Asra’s thigh – a warm palm smoothed over, through, his sex-matted waves, obliging.

Julian’s eyes fluttered open, trained towards his lover, but it wasn’t golden skin, a carefully indulgent smirk, a halo of cloudy curls, that he saw – a shape like a ghost, soft and shimmering, long hair floating over shoulders, bare breasts, no features, no features, it was like he couldn’t see her – what color was her hair? Her eyes? Her lips? Julian wondered, a dull pain crushing his chest as her fingers daintily smoothed through his hair, humming quiet nonsense as she sipped the tea in her mug – this time, he moved, leaning his face into the hand, his lips brushing against creamy underside of her wrist, so warm and solid as he kissed her, as he whispered: “Darling, my darling…” 

The hand jerked away, almost imperceptibly, and Julian felt the muscles in Asra’s leg tighten as he fought back something, something; the sharpness in his voice, the steely edge, cut through Julian like a cold wind. “You know the rules, Ilya.” 

Julian’s eyelashes fluttered – why had he done that, what had possessed him? – but said nothing, just nuzzled his face back into Asra’s thigh, offering apology in the form of a whimper. Slowly, hesitantly, Asra’s hand returned to his hair, sipping the rose-scented tea as he hummed absentmindedly, a little nonsense tune that ached dully in Julian’s chest, that stung in his eyes as he drifted into dreams, dreams of graceful feet and silky thighs, of soft, wild voices, of violently blurred faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _MOC: All right, I gotta go take a cold shower. _


	7. Ripped Pink Lace, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Julian falls in love. 
> 
> This was beta'd by the inimitable [Aria_i_Adagio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_i_Adagio/pseuds/Aria_i_Adagio).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Taylor Swift - Delicate **
> 
> _ CW: No content warnings _

When Julian bought the abandoned warehouse in the Southside for a song and dance a little more than a year ago, he’d worried it would be more trouble than it was worth; he’d had to retrofit the first floor to accommodate his clinic, and he wasn't sure he had the constitution to be a landlord in the roughest part of town. 

But the tenants that lived in the little one-room apartments on the second floor were all the quiet sort, paying their rent on time, rarely bringing their trouble home with them. Despite being in the Tavern district, it was fairly peaceful at night, but not so far off the beaten path that his patients couldn’t find the unassuming clinic door that faced the street. Julian had long determined that the friendly bohemian woman that lived in the loft on the third floor was something of a high-class prostitute, mostly men coming and going at all hours of the night, though he rarely ever heard any noise coming from her place. More often, he wondered if he disturbed her when he was home, keeping odd hours, pacing and drinking and playing his records through the night – and, of course, when he brought lovers home with him. 

But by far Julian’s favorite part of the loft were the east-facing windows: the sunrise pouring through, the gentle morning activity of the docks, the cool salt breeze that seemed to seep through the glass, the brick; it reminded him of Nevivon, of waking to the sounds of his mother making breakfast, his father practicing his flugel out on the cliffs before going down to the docks.

But it was rare for Julian to have anyone to share it with. Most of his lovers left before dawn, if they stayed the night at all. He preferred it that way, so he could return quickly to his work in the morning. But it was different this time; he’d known it the moment he’d first met her, the moment he handed her that glass of Sonnet Lore, the sound she’d made as she tasted it for the first time, the way she said his name, teasingly, half laughing, half flirting. The sound of her voice when she sang, when she laughed at his jokes, even the bad ones; the way she rested her chin in a bouquet of her knuckles when she was absorbed in a book. 

Julian traced his fingers gently up the gorgeous, giving curve of Iris’s back, her body still curled around his as the first rays of dawn crept through the wide half-moon windows. She mewed softly at the touch, her breath warm against the bare skin of his chest, her eyelashes tickling his clavicle with unintended butterfly kisses. The little warmth in Julian’s heart surged; he knew. He was smitten. 

Gently, so gently, Julian extricated himself from Iris’s arms, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and slipped out of bed. She shuddered at the loss of his warmth, snuggling down into the tangled sheets; Julian stole a glance at her body, the soft but sinuous back, the shadows cast by her scapula, the sensuous rise of her hips, the delectable fullness of her ass, the taper of her thighs, the secret, dusky skin between them. The halo of blonde waves, still crunchy with last night’s wax, mussed from sex and sleep; the softness of her cheeks, the precious way her full lips parted as she quietly snored; the way her dark brows furrowed when Julian spread a knit Albanese blanket over her from the messy pile by the fireplace. 

In the water closet, Julian relieved himself and splashed cold water over his face; he would need to shave, he realized, the stubble already prickly under his fingertips. He fought with his hair and lost, sighing as he shook his head, letting it fall as it pleased. He eyed his sickly pale complexion, the hollows of his cheeks, his angular nose – beaky, his grandmothers used to tease – and ached for a moment, conjuring images of Asra’s golden skin, his high, rounded cheekbones, full lips spread in an impish smile. The magician’s face flitted in and out of Julian’s mind so quickly that he hardly registered it, turning away from the mirror and padding softly across the worn wood floor to the galley kitchen.

Like the rest of his loft, the kitchen was sparse; a long stretch of industrial shelves and rough-hewn cabinets, the sink-basin, the runebox tucked away snugly in the island counter. Julian was never much for meals at home, preferring instead to patronize the Southside taverns, the foreign bakeries, the noodlemongers; but he was never without fresh coffee, dark and bitter as loneliness. He had one measly, beat-up pan, a stock pot barely fit to boil water in, but his kettle was copper, artisanal, the Franc press far finer than anything Iris used at the shop. Julian’s heart twinged a little as he shook the ground coffee into the bottom of the press with a pinch of Nivenese salt; he wondered who would source their exotic teas now that Asra was out of the picture. 

He set the kettle on to boil, lighting the gas range with a practiced flick of his wrist. He realized, with a soft exhale, that he had nothing to doctor Iris’s coffee with. On the mornings they happened to take breakfast together at the palace, Iris dripped a generous spoonful of honey into her coffee, diluted nearly to the color of the milky underside of her wrist. 

He considered, for a moment, running down to the market, begging cream from the coffee seller he frequented on the mornings he overslept, honey from the fruitier who often asked him to try their amateur mead, cloyingly, eyecrossingly sweet. But the idea of Iris waking up alone in his apartment was more loathsome than serving her black coffee; it wasn’t the first time she’d spent the night, but it was the first time she’d let her guard down for him, at least in this delicate way. He glanced back over his shoulder to where she was sleeping in his bed. 

Julian caught himself staring, the corners of his lips rising as the kettle gently spun up to a boil; Iris grunted, her fingertips dragging through the white sheets as she rolled over in her sleep onto her back. He could have melted, the way her chest rose and fell with her breath, the way she rested her palm on the swell of her stomach, just above her navel, where her belly was the supplest, the skin the sweetest; the way her breasts pillowed, her nipples relaxed and loose, petal soft. 

When the kettle whistled, it yanked Julian out of his reverie, warm and stormy eyes sparking back to reality as he poured the boiling water into the Franc press, steaming feebly as it steeped into the delicious, void-black coffee that practically sustained him. He poured the coffee into two unmated mugs, carefully carrying them back to the bed where Iris was watching him through her eyelashes, a soft, sleepy smile warming her features. 

“Good morning.” She whispered groggily, reaching up for the mug. Julian sank into the bed next to her, his long legs folded under him as he leaned over Iris. 

“Careful. It’s hot.” He warned her, handing her the mug as she sat up on her elbows. “Sorry I didn’t have cream or honey.” 

Iris chuckled softly, a sound that was half amusement, half embarrassment. “I’ll live.” She joked, taking a soft sip. “Thank you, Julian.” She murmured, her face a little flushed. 

Julian found himself biting his lip, breathing in deeply, quietly, before he spoke. “Have I ever told you Julian isn’t my given name?” He asked before taking a long sip. 

Iris smiled, her eyes trained on the rippling surface of her coffee; she ran a hand through her hair. “I figured. Julian’s not a native Nivenese name, is it?” 

Julian’s laughter was hardly a puff of breath, the corners of his smile curling. “No, it’s not. I studied medicine in Prakra; my name was difficult for the Prakrans to pronounce, so I went by Julian. After a while, it just stuck.” 

Iris’s eyelashes fluttered heavily as she considered this. “Then what’s your given name?” She finally asked quietly, dreamily. 

Julian turned to her, his eyes faraway. “Ilya. Ilya Nikolyavitch Devorak.” 

“Ill-ya.” Iris whispered softly, mostly to herself, turning the name over on her tongue; Julian got no small amount of pleasure from hearing her say it, even as she stumbled. He leaned forward, his hand nearly brushing against hers. 

“Not quite. It’s three syllables.” He murmured into her ear. “The second is so soft you might miss it. Ill-e-ya.” 

“Ill-e-ya.” Iris said slowly. “Ilya. Ilya.” 

“There you are.” His smile was wide, his expression warm. “It just takes some practice.” 

At this, Iris laughed, leaning back against the bare glass of the window, thumbing the rim of her coffee mug absentmindedly. “And however will I practice?” Her lips slipped into a wicked grin as she let her legs fall open against the rumpled sheets. 

Julian chuckled over the lip of his mug before setting it down with a decided clink on the windowsill; he leaned forward, over Iris, their lips almost touching, the space between them narrowing, electrifying, as he took the cup from her and placed it on the bookshelf. “I’ll have to give you a reason to say my name, then,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. Iris hummed in assent as Julian’s long fingers traced up the slope of her chest, sending delicious little shivers down her spine, making her arch into him. 

He wrapped his other arm around her waist and pulled her into his arms, her legs straddling his; their lips brushed once, twice, before Iris pressed into him, nipping softly at his lower lip before he slipped his tongue between her teeth. He could feel fluttering in his veins and thrumming in his heart as Iris wrapped her arms around his shoulders and closed the space between them, pressing her soft, warm breasts into his chest. 

His hand swam down to the swell and groped gently before his fingers found the peak of her nipple, hardening with each stroke of his thumb. Iris’s lips turned against his, a little giggle before a quiet moan, a soft puff of air against his parted lips. His other hand slid up her back to the nape of her neck, her long hair tangled in his fingers. 

“Ilya...” Her voice was low, liquid, simmering as her eyes fluttered closed against his kisses. He could die, how it turned him on to hear his name on her tongue, to feel her respond to his touch, his kiss, his body. The heat swirling through him surged – almost painfully – as Iris wound her hands in his wild hair, too, gently scraping at his scalp; he was getting desperately, embarrassingly hard, just from kissing her, from her tugging his neck long and pressing lingering kisses against the sinew, his Adam’s apple. 

And she could feel it; her eyes were wicked as she ground down on him, the silky skin of the inside of her thigh cradling his cock, making both of them whimper. Julian couldn’t help grabbing the sweetness of her hips, flush rising as she ground against him again, this time her mound flush against the thick hair on his pubis, drawing a delicious little moan from her. “Ilya...” 

“_Draga_.” He sighed, meeting her motions; he could feel her slick now, the warmth of her sex, against his length. Iris shivered as the head brushed against her clit, biting her lip even as Julian kissed her, urgently now, his restraint waning as his tongue searched for hers. They fell into delicious rhythm, kissing, rocking, grinding, touching, until Iris was panting, whining in his arms, her face flushed as he slipped again, again, against her pleasure. 

“Ilya...please, Ilya...” She whimpered, her voice splitting into a groan as he caught dangerously against the place she bloomed from, so hot, so lush, so tantalizing. He didn’t need to ask what she was begging him for.

“Are you sure?” He tried to ask her evenly, but his breath hitched just at the thought of being inside her, of the way she clenched around him as she cried out through her orgasm, the way she scratched her nails down his back in the throes of release. “I could...” 

“No...no, please...” She was a mess, a beautiful, exquisite mess, eyelashes fluttering and lips trembling, chest flushed as she met his eyes. More than any part of her, Julian loved her eyes, the tangled cords of cobalt, indigo, violet, like moonlight reflected on a still sea, wide and ink-dark. How her thick lashes framed her startling irises, how her strong brows couldn’t hide anything she was feeling, now bowed with bliss as Julian guided her onto her back, one strong hand spanning her waist. 

“I can’t say no to you.” Julian whispered in her ear before kissing the secret place behind it, below it, his lips dragging down her neck as he peeled away from her, reaching for a barrier. She didn’t break their gaze, even as she parted her legs, touched her glistening, throbbing clit while he sheathed himself. He paused, watching her through lidded eyes, his flush rising, his cock twitching, and she grinned a little, even with her eyes hazy with need. 

Julian shifted back onto his hands and knees, his kisses grazing the inside of Iris’s parted thighs. “Are you sure you don’t want me to…?” He purred, his lips brushing against that same velvety skin that had caressed him just moments ago. 

Iris’s smirk grew wicked, her fingers slowing even as her hips jerked so imperceptibly, her breath catching. “You want to, don’t you?” She murmured. “Do you want to beg?”

Julian groaned; she’d seen right through him. “Please, darling, please…let me...” His skin felt feverish, his heartbeat stuttering, as he inhaled softly, the scent of her skin, her arousal, so deeply intoxicating his head spun. 

“Let you what, Ilya?” Iris asked innocently, even as she canted her hips towards him. The sound of her voice, his name, shot straight to his groin, igniting his already aching desire. 

“I...I want to taste you...to please you...whatever you want, darling, I’ll do it...” He was babbling now, pressing his cheek against her thigh pitifully, like a dog begging to be pet.

Iris hummed with delight, drawing her hand away and threading her fingers through his hair. “I can’t say no to you.” She cooed and propped herself up on her elbow as Julian trailed his lips over her labia, now slick with desire. 

This, this was bliss, Julian thought hazily as he teased her lips apart with tentative kitten licks, her distinctive taste, her scent, flooding him; oranges and cinnamon, like everyone else in Vesuvia, but also her perfume, rose and iris and lily, the distinctive, human musk of her sweat, her sex. She arched under him as his tongue swirled experimentally around her clit, and he grabbed her thighs, spreading them further apart. Their foreplay, his teasing, had made her so sensitive and riled up that she moaned, loudly, when he found the spot that undid her, 1 o’ clock, the tip of his tongue dragging, pressing, against the pearl of her nerves. 

At the sound of her voice, Julian increased the pressure of his touches and fell into a steady pace, lapping the flat of his tongue against her like a man starved; his gaze flitted up her prone body, the cinch of her stomach, the arch of her back, the way her mouth fell open, wide, wet, around an expectant whine. How had it come to be that this woman was writhing for him in his bed? This white witch, the astounding way she soothed and healed his patients in his clinic with just a fingertip pressed to the skin; the power of her voice when she was standing before the Chamber, singing at the top of her lungs; the fierceness in her eye when she bartered with shopkeeps, shouldered away the men who approached her brusquely in the market, when she ignored Lucio’s advances with a roll of her eyes, when she stood up for the people of Vesuvia, for the sick, the forgotten, the destitute. 

How could it be that she was the same woman that he held last night while she cried, the same woman who covered herself with her arms when he approached her even after they had just made love, the same woman who still loved the one who left her? A tinge of something dark, viscous, spread painfully through Julian’s chest as he watched Iris’s face contort with pleasure, her eyes screwed shut, her hips rolling against his, urging him, guiding him desperately towards her orgasm. Iris still loved Asra; that much was certain. Why else would she have thought of him after…? 

And how could he ever compete with Asra? Julian wondered, another pulse of sadness welling in him. Asra, the prodigy, the beauty – the way he looked at Iris, like his whole world revolved around her; the way her eyes always flitted to him across a crowded room, even when she was talking with Julian. Julian unconsciously increased his pace, the fervor in his belly searing now, searing to please her, to prove himself to her, to hear her gorgeous voice say his name again, to affirm him, his worthiness to lay between her legs like this, to worship her…

Iris whimpered, now fisting both hands in his hair, carelessly scratching, pulling, as she bucked forward, her body bowing with pleasure as her voice grew high and tight and wild. “Ilya, Ilya, _Ilya, **Ilya**_...” Her voice was choked with ecstasy as she crashed through her orgasm, her legs wrapping around his shoulders, her whole body bucking as the void washed over her, then sunk her into an oblivion of bliss. 

Julian slowed his tongue, savoring the hot little gush from her core, the delicious evidence of her pleasure, of his value to her, salty, sweet, delicate. He ran his hands over her shaking thighs as he let his lips unlatch, pressing wet, open mouthed kisses into her quivering belly, her ribs, her heaving, flushed chest, her fragrant neck, her soft, parted lips. The sound Iris made was half giggle, half groan as he kissed her, as he hovered over her, letting her recover from her orgasm. 

Her legs were still wound around him, his hips now, and she greedily pressed him into her, wrapping her ankles around his waist as his cock nuzzled between her still-throbbing labia. “Ilya...” She moaned, her face still flushed; she wrapped her arms around his back, one hand between his shoulders, the other winding up his neck. “Oh, Ilya...” 

Julian shuddered, aching want arcing through his spine, his hips. “Darling, if you keep saying my name like that...” He murmured against her lips. “...I don’t know if I’ll be able to restrain myself.” 

With a little smile, Iris pulled him closer to her, rolling her hips against his. “Then don’t.” 

Something animal gripped him as he groaned and reached down, lined up; with a liquid movement, he pressed just the tip inside of her, drawing from her a needy gasp, a stutter of her breath. She bit her lip, closed her eyes, and whined, rolling her hips up to his, but he didn’t indulge her, thrusting into her slowly, so slowly, pushing a little further in with each movement. 

And, with a little purr, he bottomed out in her, hips flush with hers, and Iris moaned again; this time her voice was formless, wanton, her neck flung back long, begging, begging to be kissed. And kiss it Julian did, every inch of it, then her cheeks, her shoulders, her face, as he set their pace, slow but steady, sweet but bruising, his hips snapping into hers, drawing out every wild sound trapped in her throat. 

Why did he love it so much when she was underneath him? He wondered as he nipped against the seam of her neck, as she sighed and whimpered beautifully against his skin, as she pressed her body into his like she couldn’t stand for any inch of their skin to not be touching. Why did he love the angle of her jaw when she arched against his pillows, the shadowed valley of the skin between her shoulder and her clavicle, the way she screwed up her eyes and cried out when he stroked against the little bloom of pleasure inside of her? Why was she perfect, perfect in every way, so perfect his heart ached with every moment, it was too much and not enough, never enough, he wanted to never be without her, to never leave her side, to be inside her for the rest of eternity, to do nothing but make her smile and flush with pleasure, with happiness…

She cried out his name once more, long and strained and nearly sobbing, as she suddenly clutched him so hard he swore his skin broke, as her sex fluttered and pulsed around him. She was coming, he had made her come again; he flushed with pride, with delight, with primal satisfaction as his own edge crushed, cinched, bled through him, as his hips flooded with the warmth of release and he groaned through his orgasm, his movements slowing until it was too painful, each and every nerve screaming with overstimulation as he gathered Iris in his arms, kissing her deeply. 

“Ilya...” She murmured, her voice half laugh, half sigh as she melted in his arms. “Ilya, you’re so good to me...” 

He hummed in her ear, pressing his lips lazily to the hot skin of her temple. “You’re nearly a master of that now.” 

“It’s delicious.” Iris teased, turning towards him, their lips brushing into a sweet kiss. “Delicious to whisper, delicious to moan...” 

“You’ll make me hard again, darling.” He chuckled, even as he pulled out of her, discarding the condom with a practiced motion. Iris just smiled, burrowing her forehead into his neck as they laid back on the sheets, still panting, still settling. 

They were quiet together for a long time, Julian’s hand smoothing through Iris’s long hair, her hand on his chest, over his evening heartbeat. He even thought she’d dropped back into sleep, her breath deepening slowly against his ribs, until her voice lilted through the silence of their afterglow. 

“I...” She started quietly, uncertain. “I wanted to say I’m sorry about last night.” 

“Why?” Julian replied, his eyes closed, his nose buried in her hair, breathing in the scent of her scalp, human and sweet and floral. 

He could feel the heat rise gently on her cheeks. “Who wants to hear their lover talk of someone else they loved? Wants to see them cry over them? Jul...Ilya, I….” She paused, her voice catching so slightly. “This won’t be easy for me. For you.” 

“Iris.” He murmured as he sat up gently, resting his weight on his elbow. “I meant what I said.” 

“What?” Iris whispered; Julian’s heart wrung painfully to see that her eyes were wet with tears. “What did you say?” 

Julian smiled weakly. “To take your time, _draga_. Who am I to ask you to forget the one you loved?” 

Iris’s face crumpled, her lush lower lip bowing, trembling. “How...how can I ask you to wait, Ilya?” She asked, her shoulders trembling. 

“Are you?” He murmured softly, his arm on her waist. “You’re here with me now. That’s enough for me, Iris, darling.” He kissed her lips, her tears warm against his freckled cheeks. “Who you loved before...that’s a part of you that I could never ask you to leave behind. I just want you as you are.” 

Iris smiled against his kiss, her forehead dropping to his shoulder. “You’re so good to me, Ilya.” She whispered. “I don’t deserve you.” 

“I don’t deserve _you_, darling.” He replied, a dull pain spreading through his body. He longed to tell her how he felt, how he pined for her, how he already loved her, but he knew she wasn’t ready for that; maybe she would never be ready to love him the way he loved her. But that was an agony he couldn’t allow himself to imagine. “I won’t make you any promises. I can’t. Just know that right now...” He pressed his lips into her scalp, on the place where her hair parted. “You are all I see.” 

He felt her heart pound in her chest as she pressed a kiss into his collarbone, saying nothing, but he felt the way her lips turned against his skin, the way she sighed softly as she settled against his shoulder and drifted back into the sweet embrace of sleep. His coffee was growing cold on the windowsill, and the sunbeams were growing longer, golder, as the music of work drifted up from the dock. But he barely moved, barely breathed, as she dozed in his arms; it dosed him with something he hadn’t felt in a long time, something that swam through his veins and stung, stung horribly like meaning, like hope. 

When she woke and they rose in earnest, it felt different. They dressed, Julian tenderly buttoning up the back of her dress, frowning ruefully at the rip in the lace over her shoulder; Iris smiled and kissed his cheek, said nothing. She smoothed down his collar, magicked out the wrinkles of his fine shirt as he wrapped a spare cloak around her shoulders, as they slipped out together into the early morning, back towards the palace; Iris gently wound her fingers through his, smiled widely, knowingly, at the blush that rose on his sunken cheeks, not from the morning’s chill. 

When they passed each other in the hallways of the palace now, they kissed, briefly, sweetly, unapologetic. When they worked together, Iris shadowing Julian in the dungeons or researching together in the library, their hands brushed easily, they were shoulder to shoulder, each seeking the warmth, the comfort, of the other. Julian couldn’t take his eyes off of her when she helped out at the clinic, a quiet pride rising in him as she cared for his patients. 

It wasn’t long before they were spending the night in each others’ beds, and not just to make love, but to sleep in the arms of the other. It wasn’t long before Julian’s things appeared in her rooms, his clothes, his satchel, his notebooks and research tomes. It wasn’t long before everyone in the palace knew they weren’t just an item, but they were together, their lives intertwining easily, comfortably. It wasn’t long before they clung to each other in the chaos that swirled around the palace, like smog, like the dust that choked the city that summer. It wasn’t long before they kept secrets from each other, to protect each other. 

It wasn’t long before Julian found the lacquered box on Iris’s desk one morning as she slept, as he fought his own sleeplessness, his restlessness; glancing over his shoulder at her, the slow and steady rise of her chest, the beloved breath that spun softly over her lips. He carefully worked the box open, his fingers deftly finding the peonies, their worn groves, the quiet click of the mechanism as the trick lid sprung open. He was and wasn’t shocked to find the little web of ripped pink lace, spooled around itself, wedged in the corner with the other keepsakes. 

Julian breathed softly, deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as he let the heavy lid fall shut; he climbed back into the bed with her, let her snuggle into his chest when she sensed his warmth in her sleep, wrapped his arms around her and did his best not to let the tears that spilled from his eyes drop onto her cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: Happy New Year, loves. I hope 2020 is kind to you, and to us all.


	8. The Foxglove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Asra returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hozier - As It Was **
> 
> _ CW: MCD referenced _

Vesuvia hardly saw rain, despite the hazy mists that rolled in during the coldest of months. Yet when it rained, in the height of summer, it poured: the sky wept, the orchards in the north danced with gratitude, and the fields that crowned the cliffs protecting the city turned completely to impassible mudlands.

Tonight was not one of those nights, when the ancient, nameless bison landed with a whump on the sodden ground; it merely misted, the temperature liminal, early spring and still chilly, too warm for the fogs. Asra pulled his cloak around his shoulders, thin as it was against the cold; yet, he was too numb to shiver. Without a word, he dismounted, his boots squelching in the mud as he patted the horns of the bison, fondly, absentmindedly, his eyes trained to the horizon. 

The palace, few lights flickering in the quiet of soft before dusk, sprawling across his view like the Sea of Mountains. With a pained stretch of his heart, Asra though of all the sights he’d seen in the last year: the snow-capped Sea, the roil of the Himmalehs, the floating library in Kirat. The immense silence of the Welcome Sea, the wild, sundrenched islands that ringed it; the electric storms of the Enigmatic Ocean; the colorful but silent cities, the ruins of the old world, the lost era. 

Yet, the memories were tinny and hollow, tinged with an anxiety that Asra still felt prickling at the back of his throat, raising the hairs on his neck, his nerves sparking as he glanced over his shoulder, swiping his damp curls, longer now than they ever had been, out of his tired eyes. 

A damp nose pressed into the flat of Asra’s hand, wider than his palm. _Go to her. While her heart still beats._

Asra’s throat tightened, and his hands trembled, even as he returned the bison’s gesture, pressing softly back into his snout. “I know.” 

The bison bowed his shaggy head. _I cannot take you any further. Take care, young one, my friend. Share my light with the bright one. _

“I will. Thank you.” Asra murmured. With a fond, purring growl, a shake of his head, a soft shower of musk-fragrant droplets, the bison alighted; Asra watched the slowly darkening sky until the beast disappeared into the low clouds.

And then Asra was alone, the soft rain against his skin, the mud sucking at his boots with each tentative step towards the looming towers of the palace. The field was still dark and barren from winter, the brambles of black burdock thick through the spent wild wheat and field barley, stalks bowed and still fragrant. The only color came from the budding foxgloves, slowly overtaking the fallow field – a few spiked blooms had already unfurled their petals to the dewy air, their hearts crimsoned and bloody, fragmented, against wild violet. 

Despite his urgency, Asra stooped, pressing a leather-clad knee into the mud, feeling the unctuous seep of it as he sunk softly into the earth; and still, he let his fingers linger on the delicate stem, turning the tender bloom towards him, careful that his bare skin didn’t touch the petals. He smiled with a soft fondness; foxglove grew between the cracks of the sun-baked, star-pressed pavingstones behind the shop, but Opal never let him pluck him like he did the other weeds. To do so would anger the Gods, she’d explained – the foxgloves protected the shop from ill fortune. When she died, some patrons had left bouquets of foxglove on their doorstep, and Iris, just like Opal, insisted they not be moved until they’d long wilted. At least, with Iris, he believed it was because of the deadly poison in the petals. 

Asra’s heart grew heavy, nearly unbearable, as he stood, deftly plucking off the stem of blooms and tucking it into one of his deep, secret pockets. He’d thought of her often, even still, as he’d gathered more distance between her and Vesuvia. He still dreamt of her, nearly every night, even as he slept with others – the sweetness of her soft laugh, the crinkle of her brows when she was reading, concentrating on a spell, the warmth of her skin under his fingertips, the human scent of her scalp as she slept, the wild catch of her breath when he kissed her –

A soft sound startled him from his reverie as he stood, his violet eyes turned warily to the setting sun. A bird’s cry, high and urgent, striking his blood cold – his fingers closed instinctually around the foxglove stem in his pocket, fingertips brushed against the parchment folded there, scented with lavender, bearing practiced, curling script, the eloquent voice he heard even in her writing. How Chandra had found him, halfway across the world, he’d never know. 

Faust, asleep in his bag, stirred and poked her head out of the leather flaps, her tongue flitting out carefully into the light rain. She trained her all-seeing eyes to the horizon, a perfect mirror of Asra, staring carefully at the dot that grew and grew with each passing moment, slowly unfurling wings, the iridescent sparkle of purple-sheened feathers, finally, the ink-glimmer of animal eyes. It was then, then, that Asra heard Faust’s voice deep in his heart; not a word, or a phrase, no, but something like a sharp inhale, a sob, a desperate, heaving gasp that left him breathless, breathless and desperate and hoping, against all odds, it wasn’t true. 

Asra’s fingers tightened into fists, the nails cutting sharply into his palms before he registered the pain – he was too focused on the searing, the ripping, in his core, like he was being torn asunder; his mind was blank, but horribly so, like nothing would catch, no matter what lines he threw to himself, he was drowning, drowning, the surf crushing in his ears, salt scorching his throat, the world around him was burnt-red and brimstone, as his lungs filled with water, his heart slow, slow, slow, even as Chandra alighted on his shoulder, gave a careful nip to his ear, something like pity, something like solidarity. 

He didn’t read the words, he couldn’t, even though the note was short, hardly a haiku in its desolation; _It is too late. She’s passed, Asra. She’s passed, and you are too late. Come soon._ This note, he couldn’t keep, letting it flutter to the ground as Chandra took wing, her black eyes trained still on him as she lead him, slowly, stumbling, to the palace, the palace that held nothing sacred for him now. All he could clutch in his shaking, burning fingers was the foxglove, the poisonous foxglove, protect me, protect me, Gods – how could he know, how could I know, this would be nothing, nothing, compared to the chasm of absence he knew, that, after everything, nothing, nothing, could protect her in the end, not my stumbling to my knees, not my hollow screams echoing through the Southern forest, not my blood spilled, not Ilya’s either, not Ilya’s memories, not Nadia’s emptiness, not anything but the oppressive gape of your gone, of keeping your store, of reading your notes in your tomes, of shuffling your Tarot cards, of sleeping in your bed, of smelling your scent on your linens, in your clothes in your armoire, nothing, nothing, nothing would fill the ache of your absence, not until, not until, you were back in my arms again, oh Iris, I’m sorry, I can’t, _I can’t_…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: I wrote this as part of [Vesuviannights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesuviannights/pseuds/vesuviannights) Terrifying Ten challenge for December. But you don't get to know what the terrifying part was. 
> 
> Enjoy.


	9. The Obsidian Linga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Asra brings Iris a gift from his travels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** FKA Twigs - sad day **
> 
> _ CW: No content warnings _

Autumn in Vesuvia was a strange time, Iris had long decided. The desert seat of the Mezza climate realm boiled in the summer, but its inhabitants – the hardy Nuru from the Najwa, the cheerful Vesuvians, the regal Prakrans, the colorful Drakrans, even the sailors and merchants that flowed in and out of the port – thrived in the heat as Iris wilted. But in the autumn, when the temperatures dropped into delicious cool that reminded her, nostalgically, of early summer in Albyon, the city complained of cold, the clothiers putting out their thickest knits, the tea-sellers hawking steaming mugs of spiced tea. Even Asra, who’d traveled to climes much colder than Albyon, surreptitiously upped their warming herbs, recommended wards against drafts and colds to their customers, had a fire roaring in the hearth at all times. 

The city seemed to tolerate their extremely brief winters, reveling in the masquerade that came with it – they were mercifully mild, perhaps one chilly, frosty month, a few fluffy snowshowers, before spring came soaring in on her rainbow-green wings. But more than anything, Iris missed the changing of leaves that was celebrated with festivals in the country of her birth: the maple, chestnut, and apple flavored sweets, the quiet leaf-viewing hikes, the raucous harvest parties. Here, when the leaves of the city’s few deciduous trees and shrubs changed, shuddered, and fell, it was without ceremony. 

That first year, Opal had dug up her sister’s old recipes, mulling apple cider and baking pecan-maple tarts for Iris, taking her into the southern forest to see the leaves change. Asra was amused by it at first, playing along curiously, until he saw the wonder in Iris’s eyes at the changing leaves in the forest, the rare vermillion, the flaming ochre, the resilient amber. Since then, every year, Asra had timed it to the day, when the leaves would be at their brightest, most beautiful, bringing Iris with him on the guise to forage for mushrooms. 

But this autumn was different; Asra was away. Iris had known this trip would be long. They needed new stock; he’d mentioned Prakra and Drakr, and traveling there through Rostam, meaning he’d probably spend a day or two in Shemiranat, and hinted he may wander to Kirat to visit the floating library. They’d traveled together enough, at this point, that Iris could roughly estimate how long he’d be gone, flying on the back of the bison so ancient he was nameless. She’d guessed 20 days, but he’d been gone 32 now with no word. 

Iris knew better than to worry; Asra always found his way home to her bed. Before he left, he had kissed her fingertips and palms and wrists over and over again before holding her cheeks in his hands, pressing his forehead to hers as he promised, promised, he’d be back as soon as he could. 

But still, she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering as she ran her errands that morning as soon as the sun rose, bread from Selasi, fresh herbs from Korina, some hardy greens and fragrant, heavy gourds for her dinner. What if something had happened to him...if he was hurt, or arrested (Asra could get into trouble, she’d seen it firsthand) ...or worse...he’d found a bed to return to that wasn’t hers? 

Her cheeks colored as she wound through the narrow streets back to the shop. There was no expectation between them of monogamy – Asra encouraged her more than once to take lovers other than him, to explore her attractions. They’d even brought others into their shared bed, often enough now that rumors swirled; every once in a while they got a customer who came in just to flirt with the pretty white witch and her handsome mentor, to test their luck – she and Asra always had a laugh at the particularly brazen ones. But when Asra was away, her desire both waned and waxed – all she wanted was him, and him alone, in her arms again, so fiercely that she ached at night, that no amount of touching herself or fucking others could ever douse her fire. 

In Iris’s periphery, a light flickered – her downcast eyes flitted up to the streetscape, tracing the familiar shapes and silhouettes of the market backstreet. It was still early, a little past the autumn-late dawn, but not so much past that the sun had fully peeked over the roofs of the Market district, only throwing her orange-gold ribbons into the sky, bleeding like watercolors into lemon yellow and palest rose-pink, the liminal alchemy that turned it to the magic blue over Iris’s head – it was going to be a beautiful day, clear skies, apple-crisp air. But it wasn’t this postcoital sunrise light that Iris had seen – her shop light was on. 

Iris froze, felt all of her muscles tensing, the packages in her hands shifting dangerously as her arms trembled. Then she took off running, heart pounding, clumsily taking the steps two at a time as she rushed over the threshold, wrenched the door open. 

He wasn’t even surprised, the ass, that insufferable smirk playing on just the one corner of his lips, the little dimple threatening to pop – he hadn’t even taken off his wide-brimmed black hat, simply scratching Sitara’s chin to a chorus of grateful purrs while Faust happily wound around his shoulders, slithering into the folds of his cloak. If it weren’t for the adoring gleam in his eyes, the weariness, the gratefulness that Iris had seen so many times before, she would think he wasn’t sorry at all.

“I missed you.” He murmured, voice low and light. 

Iris unceremoniously dropped the packages onto the counter, rushing into Asra’s arms – her nose flooded with his scent, oh, even his smell sent an ache of need through her belly, the animal-musk from the nameless bison, woodsmoke, his favorite tea, the warmth of his skin – as he picked her up and spun her, sturdy arms around her waist, before his lips found hers, his hands on her cheeks, so needy, so needy. 

Iris didn’t know how long they kissed, only that she was flushed when Asra finally relented, and even then, his lips were still on hers, barely, barely, when he whispered. “Oh, how I missed you, my heart.” 

“What happened?” Iris murmured, helping to remove his hat and cloak before her palms found his cheeks, nuzzling his forehead with hers. She felt Asra’s warm hands on her own face, brushing a loose tendril from her simple braid back behind her ear. “You were gone so long.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath, his nose in her hair. “We were waylaid by storms over Rostam and Marshangdyi, then the passes through the Himmalehs were flooded. There was nothing we could do.” He sighed. “But I brought you something.” 

Iris snorted. “I’m not a child, Asra. You can’t placate me with little trinkets from your travels anymore.” 

His eyes were warm as his hands floated to her shoulders, and he smiled at her, his soft smile, his true smile, before impish mischief glazed it over. “Are you sure?” He crooned. 

Iris snorted again, but Asra was walking her backwards to the stairs – she barely remembered to douse the shop’s light before he had her pressed against the wall of the stairwell, his mouth greedy against hers. 

The moments, the minutes, blurred as they kissed – Asra’s tongue slipped between her lips, nudging, swirling, against hers, his fingers slipping against the leather around her waist, coaxing open the clasps of her belt. The steps melted away, Asra’s breath hot against her skin as they stumbled through the curtain to the flat. His hands in hers, he sank down into the blue velvet dressing chair, so she was standing between his knees, his lips parted as he touched her, reverently, as if she were a fever dream, as if she would fade away like smoke were he not careful. 

His ringed fingers ghosted over the gauzy ruffles around her waist, a gentle question, his eyes quietly dilating as she leaned over him, planting her knee on the chair’s arm. Slowly, as slowly as she could manage, she lifted the dress off her shoulders; she wore nothing underneath, and with her one layer gone, she felt suddenly very nude. But Asra’s eyes roved hungrily over her, his lips parting as his hands found her hips again, pulling her into his lap. 

“Perfect.” He whispered, his lips finding the soft underside of her breasts, hands swimming down the crest of her ass. “You’re perfect, Iris.” 

She couldn’t help gyrating her hips against his clothed lap; he hummed, so softly, against her skin. “How much did you miss me, Asra?” She murmured, just as softly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, drawing him closer, closer, closer.

“You have no idea how much, my heart.” He breathed into her skin, before his tongue darted forward, drawing gentle circles around her breast, his exhalations hot against her pebbling skin, his teeth dragging teasingly against her nipple before he pulled away. “It’s...it’s in my vest pocket...your gift...” 

Iris furrowed her brows with amusement, but reached inside his vest; something smooth and warm, long, familiar? She pulled it out, an oblong stone, night-dark obsidian, a little longer than the length of her hand and just wider than her fingers could grasp around. Warm, and streaked with the gentlest silver, shattering in rainbows, it was the shape of a phallus, the head bulbous and tapered, carved carefully, skillfully. It was oddly, deliciously, familiar to her.

Asra leaned into her, his lips against her ear. “It’s a linga.” He whispered to her, gently taking it from her hands. “I...I met a woman, in Shemiranat.” His breath caught, so, so gently, as he kissed the space below her ear, the tender skin of her neck. “She...we used one of these. She sold them. I wanted...to bring one back to you.” 

Iris smirked, her brows quirking as his lips dragged down the length of her shoulders. “You brought me back a toy you used with another woman?” 

Asra snorted gently. “She made this just for you, Iris.” He murmured against the silken, rounded pocket of her shoulder. “She knew our arrangement wasn’t forever.” Then his lips turned against her skin, and he pulled away, his eyes dark and his pupils deliciously wide, smirk wild and wicked. “I didn’t think much could make our sex better, but she convinced me.” 

Iris watched as Asra carefully took the linga in both his hands and wrapped them around the base; then, she jumped, shocked, as it vibrated to life with a flutter of his eyes – they sparkled, fiercely, with his magic. The linga hummed gently with power as he offered it to her – she let her fingertips whisper across it, its energy singing her sensitive nerves to life. 

“What…?” She whispered, her lips parting as she let the power roll through her, gently rustling in her, waking up her most secret, sacred places. It felt so, so familiar in her hand.

“It’s me.” Asra muttered, his lips now dragging against her cheek. “My shape.” 

Iris gasped softly as she let her hand close around the stone; her soul sang soft with recognition, the shape warm under her fingertips. “It is you.” She murmured, astonished. 

Asra smiled now, his dimples in full view, though it was careful, almost uncertain. “Let me...” He took the linga from her, gently running it over her collarbone – she gasped and arched as the vibrations rattled through her, her neck, her shoulders, her chest. 

“Asra!” She whimpered as he painted in long strokes towards her center, then slowly, slowly, down, until it vibrated against her sternum, between her breasts; it drifted across the swells, circling the softness until it touched the pert pucker of her nipple. 

Iris writhed against him as her whole body rang with bliss, her voice shattered and wild; it was then that he took the toy away, pressed it, vibrating still, into her hand. He pressed another kiss into her cheek before muttering into her ear. “I want you to try it, Iris.” 

Iris moaned softly, even as her hand closed around the linga; it fluttered, sputtered, but coursed back to life with her magic, eking gently out of her fingertips. “Asra...” 

Asra’s lips found Iris’s, his tongue tracing the soft give of hers as his hand wound around her back, smoothing down her spine, drawing her closer. With his other hand, he guided her hand to her belly, the tender of her flesh; Iris gasped as it dragged against her skin, lower, lower. 

“Please...” Asra groaned, pressing gently against her. “Iris...” 

Iris’s teeth sunk into her lower lip; she could already feel ecstasy coiling at the base of her spine as the linga slipped between her folds, the slick that had gathered there since she’s seen the light in her shop. 

Iris shouted, her back spasming, as the buzzing linga passed over her clitoris; her free arm wrapped tighter around Asra’s shoulders, her cheek now pressed to his as her body sang electric with pleasure, pleasure like nothing she had never felt before. 

“What…?” Iris whimpered, twitching gently, as Asra shifted under her; it took her a moment to realize he was unbuttoning his pants, even as he kissed her over and over and over again, her cheeks, her chin, her neck as their hands moved in tandem…

“Iris...” He groaned against her skin. “Please, please, my darling heart...let me...can I be inside while you...” 

Iris didn’t need him to finish, she understood; she ground her hips against his, drawing from him a roll of his neck, a little whine of delight; there was a soft pulse of violet light, a whisper of heat. Then the thick of his cock spread her labia, making her moan, tremble, and she rolled into him, letting him slip inside with a shared shiver. 

“Asra...” She moaned as he stretched her; the linga drifted back down to her clitoris, making her cry out again with wild pleasure – then Asra was pressing the linga back into her hand. 

“You...” Asra breathed, his voice catching, his cheeks pink. “You should do it, Iris...” 

Her body took over readily, greedily, as she grasped it, adjusted; she whimpered brokenly as her magic took over, sparked softly, and the linga’s speed increased, as if responding to her body’s needs.

Asra leaned back against the dressing chair, his mouth wide, his pupils full-blown and black as his hands whispered back and grasped the fullness of Iris’s ass; she rolled forward, against the linga, against the firm of his pelvis. 

“Yes, Iris, yes...” He groaned as she rutted against him; he let her lead and chase her release, his cock just barely moving inside her as her bliss mounted, mounted, mounted. It was as if every passing movement unlocked something in Iris, a door, a room, a layer of veneer peeled back; and she was rushing through them desperately, desperately, each one more raw and animal than the last, until Iris threw her head back and whimpered, her entire body screaming, pleading for release. 

“Asra, it’s too much, I can’t...” She sobbed, shaking, shaking, her fingernails sinking into his clothed shoulder, but still she bucked against him, the linga brushing, nearly bruising in the pressure now, against her throbbing clit. 

Asra’s hands tightened around her hips, his voice low and smooth somehow, how was he not as breathless and undone as her? “We can stop whenever you want, Iris, but you can, I promise, just keep...keep going, my heart...” 

She bit her lip, whimpered, and then, _then_ – it was as if every tether that held her together became rainbows, ecstasy unwriting her as she convulsed in Asra’s lap, it was as if she was being turned inside out and dipped in gold, it was as if she was being clawed so gently and beautifully apart from her core, it was stronger and hotter and tighter and wilder than any other orgasm she’d ever had. She howled, nonsense, Asra’s name, obscenities, Alba, a tiny, tinny part of her brain knowing that everyone in the market could hear her, but she didn’t care – how could she? – when Asra moaned like that in her ear, his hands smoothing up her back as she gripped him over and over again, as she loosed her love over him in what felt waterfalls, his shirt and the seat of his pants soaked through as Iris slowed her hips and her body finally, finally relented, even as her fingers, her thighs, twitched in the aftershock. 

Asra’s lips were all over her, kissing her back to their plane, her eyes, her brow, the corners of her nose, her lips, her lips. “Oh, Iris.” He murmured as her eyelashes fluttered open, her sight dilating back to her slowly, slowly. “You’re so beautiful, Iris.” 

“I...” Iris gasped, her heart still beating wildly. “I see why you thought I’d like that.” 

Asra laughed, softly, his voice low and liquid as he pressed his forehead to hers, lips just against hers before he whispered, “That’s not all, my heart.” 

“W...what?” Iris muttered, her head still hazy, and then Asra was carrying her to the bed, laying her gently on her back, her shaking legs falling apart as he knelt at her side; with two fluid movements, he stripped himself of his sodden clothes, eyes clouded with desire as he trailed his fingers down the plane of her stomach. Even this gentle touch drew a desperate whimper from her, nerves still sizzling. 

Asra chuckled now, his smile impish as he dipped his fingers between Iris’s legs, through the slick and the spend that soaked her thighs; Iris mewled when he slipped inside her, two fingers, the stretch welcome and delicious. “Do you want to try having it inside you?” 

Iris could only moan and nod, shivering at the thought, arching wantonly against the mussed sheets as Asra’s thumb circled her swollen pleasure once before withdrawing, leaving her hollow and empty-feeling. Then it was nudging against her, still now as the human-warm stone smoothed over her clit, once, twice, she whimpered so piteously, so desperately, as it slid easily inside her. 

She bit her lip, hard, iron-salt split, suppressing the ragged gasp that bubbled up in her as the linga licked against the gentle secret inside of her – wildly, she grabbed for Asra, at her side, watching her with eyes darker than night, his other palm wrapped around his own cock, aching and leaking. Her own hand joined his, pumping, pulling him closer to her, she could hardly form a rational thought other than to have him at her side, inside her, she wanted him to know, to know how much she’d missed him, how she’d wilted and wanted without him – when she took him in her mouth, he gasped her name and relished the tears that sprung into the corners of her eyes as his cock smoothed against her tongue, down her throat. 

It was then the linga sparked back to life – Iris bucked, gasped, and Asra’s free hand wound through her loose braid, pulling just enough to meet the motions of his thrusts, almost insatiable, perfectly in time with the roll of her hips, the fluid thrusts of his wrist. Iris could only whimper and moan, one hand wrapped around Asra’s waist, nails digging into his back, the other around his cock, as they chased their ecstasy together. 

It was Iris who came first, her muffled cries and whines growing high and tight as her entire body coiled and snapped, legs shaking uncontrollably as it felt like she was cleaved in half, over and over again; Asra was crying out her name as he watched her come completely undone, the wild sounds of her orgasm, the rumble of her voice against his twitching, aching sex, the flush of pleasure that pinked across her like sunrise as he gave her everything, everything he could, the pleasure, the release, the delight, the intimacy – with a tremulous growl, he came too, into her willing mouth, her moans low and satisfied now as she drank him down. 

They collapsed together into the bed, Iris kissing every inch of Asra’s flushed skin as they came down, her lips lingering over the plane of muscle over his hammering heart. She nestled in, her cheek, her ear, against the gently slowing thumping that grounded her as her own body surged in the after. Asra removed the linga, placed it carefully on the spindly bedside table, and pressed his nose into her wrecked hair, inhaling the sweet human scent of her scalp, oranges and irises and rain. 

For several long, luscious moments, they couldn’t move, even if they tried – they could hardly catch their breath. The sounds of the market drifted up to them, worlds away, it seemed – all that Iris was aware of was Asra, the sea-rhythm of his breath in her hair, the warm of his skin, the quiet strength his shoulders, his arms around her waist. He hummed gently as she traced her fingers down the little swell of muscle, twitching so, so gently at the touch. “Don’t let me fall asleep.” He murmured, a dopey, happy smile stretching across his face. “We have so much to do today.” 

Iris chuckled softly; she, too, was drunk on his scent, her head still spinning. “We do?” 

He hummed thoughtfully, kissing down the planes of her face, his thumbs tracing gently across her cheeks as he pulled her up to him, their foreheads touching as their lips lingered together. “You don’t want to see the leaves? They should be at their peak.” 

Iris couldn’t help but laugh, and Asra’s heart swelled at the sound. “Did you think I forgot, my heart?” 

She shook her head, their noses brushing. “I don’t know why I ever doubted you, Asra.” She made to sit up, but Asra pulled her back down into the sheets, rolling her onto her back and arching over her like a cat, eyes wicked. 

“I’m not sure I’m done with you just yet.” He whispered, his lips on her breastbone, kisses trailing lower, lower, lower, Iris’s trembling hands finding his snowy curls as his hands gripped her waist, his tongue hot, so hot, against her skin…

The leaves would be just as beautiful at dusk, they agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: Happy birthday, my darling, wild Iris.


	10. The Tortoiseshell Button

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Julian jumps the gun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Ariana Grande - Imagine **
> 
> _ CW: No content warnings _

Iris groaned softly, scrunching up her nose as her eyelids fluttered open. The room was flooded with the pale, weak light of sunrise, lemon yellow dusted with the spun sugar of swirling motes; the balcony doors were flung open in the hopes of enticing breezes that refused to leave the lazy, midsummer clouds that stretched across the unpurpling sky. 

It was already hot; Iris was sweating, and her cheek, her chest, the underside of her arm, the inside of her thigh were all sleek where her skin was touching Julian’s. He was asleep on his back, one arm flung over his head, the other wrapped around Iris, hand gently cupping the softness of her upper arm; she was pressed into his side, her leg wrapped around his, her hand on his chest, his heartbeat drumming slowly under her fingertips.

He had kicked off the sheets, the thick quilted duvet in his sleep – normally Iris would have been annoyed and a little amused, but this morning they weren’t needed, the heat bearing down oppressively. She carefully extricated herself from him, rolling away and onto her back, but she turned her face towards him, carefully brushing a sweaty curl off of his forehead; her heart surged when he reached up for her in his sleep, their fingers twining together lazily as he turned his face towards her touch. 

Julian’s initial charm was in his roguishness, the knowing arch of his brows, the wisecracking, the conspiratorial smirk, the flirtatious but chivalrous touches; but when it was just the two of them, when he was so sweet and soft, his eyes liquid, his pale, sunken cheeks flushed and needy, that Iris melted for him, as soon as his mouth brushed against her ear with his breathless, hesitant pleas. And in his sleep...he was an angel, his long eyelashes fluttering, his brows furrowed just a little, his summer-strewn freckles dark against his nose, his high cheekbones, even his shapely, parted lips, the soft, satisfied noises he made when Iris stirred against him in sleep. 

They had shared a bed for nearly a month now, Julian often forgoing his smaller room in the guest wing for her ladies’ chambers in Nadia’s. It had been a slow, gradual process; though he slept through the night so rarely, often gone in the mornings or not coming to bed until long after Iris had drifted to sleep, his things had migrated there, shirt after loose shirt flung over the back of the desk chair, notebooks and sketchbooks and reference books left everywhere, even specimens of leeches in everything from beakers to canning jars to wine bottles that Julian insisted were ‘fussy’, requiring regular care. When they had first started seeing each other, Iris had kept a bottle of spiced rum stashed away for the nights when he came to her late, exhausted from the dungeons; now, there was a decanter of it on the bar next to the blonde bottle of Nipponese firewater. And now, on the nights when Iris slept alone, she missed him. She missed him desperately.

Iris smiled a little, remembering the night before – after a long day at the clinic, both of them exhausted, Lucy had summoned them to his chambers to entertain him with Nadia. Iris despised Lucio’s brutishness, his bratty insistence at throwing around his power, his demands for their attention, but at the very least he knew how to entertain. Wine flowed freely, Gentle Noble chilled with frozen grapes, and fragrant Highnoon Rendezvous – the Consul had been there, too, later in the night – and after she, Nadia, and Julian performed, they all amused themselves with cards and drinking games until Lucio effectively kicked them out, secreting away quite obviously with the Consul. 

The three of them all stumbled back to Nadia’s wing, where Nadia excused herself to bed, but not before gifting them with a bottle of Golden Goose that had been chilling in her room. Iris would have been content with falling into bed and riding Julian until she collapsed, but he had other ideas, scooping her and the Goose into his arms as soon as the sliding door closed behind them, whisking her into her private bath, where someone – Ami or Primula, no doubt – had filled the little bathtub with still-steaming water, scented gently with rose and thick with Nivenese bathing salts. 

They’d soaked together, Julian expertly rubbing his thumbs over the arches of Iris’s feet while they sipped on the Golden Goose, talking and giggling about everything and nothing. Iris hummed shapeless little tunes she composed on the spot as she rested her head on Julian’s shoulder, her forehead pressed to his neck while he cradled her in his arms, kissing her damp hair, her forehead, her temples. She hadn’t even remembered going to bed – she must have fallen asleep in his arms, lulled by the steady sweetness of the slow breath in his chest. She could imagine him pressing his cheek to her hair, watching her sleep in his arms for a blissful, beatific moment, before lifting her out of the water like she weighed nothing and putting her to bed. She could imagine curling into him as soon as he, too, slipped between the sheets, the heated flush that would have crept across his cheekbones as he wrapped his arms around her, drew her closer. 

And now…Iris let her eyelids drop closed as she snuggled a little closer; they were still not quite touching, the June gloom still heavy and damp, but she drew their clasped hands against her lips, kissing the doctor’s knuckles gently. She settled in to drift back to sleep, but the mattress shifted with a little groan, cool, bare skin brushing against hers as Julian’s long, elegant fingers stroked her cheek, as he leaned over her, straddling her with his impossibly long, lean legs. 

“Good morning.” He murmured softly into her ear, his voice still heavy with sleep. Iris responded with a soft kiss as he ran his fingers through her long, long hair. “How are you feeling?” 

Iris laughed softly, her eyes sighing open as she met his gaze, steady, loving. “I’m fine. Or still drunk. I don’t know yet.” 

Julian snorted, a little huff that breathed against Iris’s lips as he bent down to kiss her. “You’re the only person I know who can down a whole bottle of Golden Goose by themselves and still be coherent in the morning.” 

Iris threw her head back, giggling as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “You helped me, if I recall.”

Julian hummed thoughtfully, his lips on her jaw now, his kisses gentle and feather-light. “I had a glass, you had the bottle. I thought for sure I’d be administering bedrest, aspirin, and lots of fluids in the morning.” 

Iris smiled wickedly. “And what’s your prognosis now, doctor?” 

The sound Julian made was something of a soft, satisfied growl as his lips drifted down Iris’s neck. “Well, I definitely don’t think you should leave bed for a few hours.” 

“A few hours?” Iris teased, her smile wide. “That’s optimistic.” 

Julian shushed her, his storm-gray eyes darkening slightly. “I have to go tend to Lucio. He demanded a checkup and a research update first thing in the morning. I figure we have at least some daylight before he rouses; he drank nearly as much wine as you.” 

Iris groaned softly. “Don’t say his name in my bed, darling.” She muttered, even as she threaded her fingers through Julian’s silky hair, petting him affectionately.

He lifted his head, their eyes meeting; his pupils dilated as his gaze swept over her face, the little flush rising on her full cheeks as his fingers trailed down the cinch of her naked waist. “Whose name should I say instead, darling?” He asked quietly, the corners of his mouth turning up just so. 

“Mine.” She whispered, her fingernails scraping a little against his scalp, earning her a slowly rising but deep flush, his bottom lip slipping between his teeth for a brief and beautiful moment. 

“It’ll be hard...to say much of anything.” He murmured softly, slinking back, trailing little open-mouthed kisses over the hills of her breasts, the dips and swells of her belly. “With my mouth full.” Before Iris could even wrap her mind around what he meant, form a clever response, he met her eyes and wrapped his hands around her hips, flung her legs over his shoulders; he slipped his long, skilled tongue between her labia, laving the length of her sex. 

Iris whimpered, biting her lip and screwing her eyes closed as Julian’s tongue reached the glistening, rosy pearl of her clitoris; he paused, inhaling the deep scent of her before wrapping his lips around it, sucking gently while teasing it with his tongue.

Iris moaned and reached down, carding the fingertips of one hand through his bed-mussed auburn waves, the other coming to rest on the swell of her own belly. Julian relinquished his grip on her thigh to take her hand, threading his fingers through hers. 

Iris flushed at the gesture, and not from pleasure, even though it blossomed and swelled in her with each practiced pass of Julian’s tongue. They had been sleeping together for nearly three months now, exclusively for two; Iris had never imagined it would get this far, this thing that at first was just a distraction from her loneliness. But with Julian, what was once a gaping ache dulled a little every day. They had fun together, complimented each other intellectually, made a great team in their work together at Julian’s clinic. There was the obvious chemistry – they could barely keep their hands off each other. And he was sensitive to her needs. There were still nights she woke up in tears, missing Asra, wondering where he was, if he was safe. And Julian just held her, kissed her, stroked her hair and whispered to her in his mother tongue until she had no tears left. 

They cared for each other – they had been friends before, after all – but Iris found herself overwhelmed by the way her heart skipped when he laughed at one of her jokes, the satisfaction she felt when she caught him staring at her from across the room, the way he held her gaze just a moment longer now before he kissed her. On the nights he came to her after long days in the dungeons, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed and burying his head in his trembling hands, Iris wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek between the juts of his shoulderblades as he shook, an unbearable guilt draped heavily across them both. 

She knew what these feelings were; she had felt them before, still felt them, for someone else, if she was being honest. She still clung to the little flame of hope that Asra would return, take her in his arms, nuzzle his cloud-soft hair into her neck and apologize, kiss her over and over and over again. But Julian was here, now, the toned muscles of his freckled back rippling as he adjusted himself onto his hip, his long, elegant hand wrapped around the pillowy inside of her thigh, kneading softly, his eyes closed now as he lapped at her, moaning at the taste of her most sacred skin as she grew wetter and wetter. He was here now; Iris was here, now. They had something together, now. 

Iris groaned and arched her back, her hand jerking away from Julian’s as she clutched at the linen bedsheets, peals of pleasure now ringing through her hips, her belly. She was panting and whimpering at each touch, and Julian increased his pace until she was a mess, rocking her hips against his lips, riding his mouth. 

Then, suddenly, he pulled away; Iris whined with frustration, her eyes flying open desperately, mouth wide. He was over her, his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, as he fumbled at the carved Busanese snuff box on the nightstand with one hand. “Can I...” He whispered into the kiss; his voice was strained, quietly pleading. “Can I be inside you when you come? I...” He kissed her again, softly now, and she bit his bottom lip, pulled; he shivered in her arms. “...I want to feel you. It feels so good to feel you...” 

She nodded wildly, grinding her hips against him, coating his cock in her wet heat; he paused unrolling the prophylactic, to feel her, to moan with bliss into her open mouth, before pulling away, sheathing himself fully in the condom. He leaned back, kneeling in front of her, and grasped her thighs, pushing her knees up to her shoulders; his eyes dark and glittering as they roved over her body, his mouth wide and wild, he lined up and pressed himself slowly, carefully, into her. 

Iris keened at the fullness, the feeling of his thickness inside of her, and flung her arms back over her head as Julian sank in inch by inch, a low, delectable groan rumbling in his throat. Then he was moving, one hand on the back of Iris’s thigh, the other on her mound, a wet thumb swirling against her swollen clit; Iris was seeing stars, he was stroking the secret inside of her, she couldn’t stop the sounds she was making if she tried, grunts and howls and shouts of his name, his given name, the delicious one, the little syllable in the middle, like the way their tongues caressed each other’s as they kissed, “Ilya, Ilya please, don’t – don’t stop, darling, oh, oh _Ilya_...”

Julian was panting, too, his voice high and sweet, his face and neck completely flushed, his skin slick in the heat. And he was staring, entranced with her every movement, the arch of her back, the way she threaded her fingers through her own hair, the sound of her ecstatic voice, the way she met his gaze and didn’t break it even as she orgasmed, seizing around him, gushing around him, impossibly soft and warm and soaking wet as she cried his name over and over again, her face strained towards his, begging, begging, to be kissed…

She was still coming, her legs quivering around him as he leaned forward and threaded his hands in hers, holding them above her head as he thrust into her harder, faster. He kissed her wildly as she gasped, as she quaked and her sex kneaded him, squeezed him; before her orgasm relented, he whimpered – his words fell from him in a deluge as he arched his back, shaking, shaking. 

“_Draga, tako je dobro, ne mogu, ne mogu..._” He groaned softly as he came, his hips slowing as Iris crooned, grasped his hands in hers. “_Volim te, Iris, volim te, jako te volim..._” 

Iris, still gasping her breath back into her lungs, drew him back down to her as he trembled, as his head swam; he was flushed, blushing as he laid his head against her neck. “I’m so sorry, Iris, I...” He stammered, unable to finish. 

Iris laughed softly, her fingers in his hair. “Sorry for what? That was fantastic.” 

Julian hesitated, then pressed his lips against her neck in a slow, simmering kiss. “I forget sometimes you don’t speak Nivenese...” 

It knit together softly in Iris’s mind as she turned to him. “What did you say?” 

He sighed ruefully, and took her hand in his, threading their fingers together over her heart. His eyes were misty and far away. “_Volim te_. It means...means I love you.”

Iris touched his cheek with her free hand. “Oh, Ilya...it’s okay. It was in the heat of the moment. It happens.” 

He shook his head softly, sitting up on his elbows, looking her in the eyes; he brought their clasped fingers up to his mouth and kissed the back of her hand. “I meant it, _draga_. I...I love you. I've loved you since...” He swallowed, clearly embarrassed. “This isn’t...how I planned on telling you. I’m sorry.” 

Iris’s heart hammered in her chest; her response welled out of her, lovely and wonderful and true. “I...I love you too, Ilya.” She said softly, her voice cracking. She touched both his freckled cheeks, pulled him back down into a gentle kiss, quiet but passionate. They kissed, and kissed, their tongues lingering over each others. Iris’s heart was so full, blooming, warm, even as the little confused tears stung the corner of her eyes. She tried to fight them back, to focus on Julian, but one dripped down her cheek; Julian must have felt it, because he reached up and brushed it away. 

For a moment, he was quiet, his brows furrowed with concern, with fear as he held her face in his hands now. He bit his lip uncertainly, then asked quietly, “Asra?”

Iris’s chest shook, and she turned away from Julian, her lips quivering as more tears fell. “I’m sorry, Ilya...” 

He shushed her softly, and wiped another tear away. “Take your time.” He whispered. “I don’t expect you to stop loving him, Iris. As...as long as you have space in your heart for me, too, I’m happy.” 

Iris’s face buckled as she turned back to him, biting her lip as she grimaced, crying in earnest now. “Ilya...” 

To her surprise, he leaned down and kissed her right over her pounding heart, his sculpted lips lingering over her sleek, sweaty skin. “Your heart is so full of love, _draga moj_.” He whispered. “It touches everything you do. How much you love Nadia, the care you show the patients in the clinic. How you burn for Vesuvia, her people, what’s right. How selfish would I have to be...to want to be the only thing in your heart?” 

Iris smiled, even as her lips trembled. “I’ve kept space in my heart for you for a long time.” She murmured.

Julian smiled softly, misty-eyed now; they kissed again, and again, and again, and then Julian sighed, pressing his forehead into her cheek as he finally pulled out of her with the tiniest of grunts. “I don’t want to leave you, but Lucio...” 

“Go.” Iris whispered, with a knowing smirk. “If you’re quick...maybe I’ll still be in bed when you get back.” 

Julian hummed coyly, and he planted a quick peck on her lips before springing out of the bed. He grabbed his shirt from the night before off of the floor and flung it over his shoulders, only to curse softly. He peeled it off, looking a little forlorn as he let it fall from him as he crossed the room to the precarious stack of clothing the chair. “That was my favorite shirt, too...” 

“What happened?” Iris asked, sitting up slowly; she stretched as Julian dressed, a grayish shirt with a slight shimmer, the leather pants with the corset closure that Iris loved. She stood and crossed the room to the water closet to relieve herself before Julian answered. 

“I figured you wouldn’t remember. When we undressed for the bath, you ripped the last button off when you took it off of me. We were both so drunk we couldn’t find it.” 

Iris chuckled as she sat on the toilet, closing the sliding door with her magic. Still, she called through it, “That’s what you get for wearing shirts with only one functioning button.” 

Then she saw it, the little tortoiseshell button on the polished porcelain floor, not too far from her feet. She grabbed it, turning it over in her fingers, the sweet satin finish of the tortoiseshell glinting in the low morning light. 

“You know, my mother was always mending the buttons on my father’s shirts.” Julian said, half thoughtfully, half teasing. “I wonder if she ripped as many off as you do.” 

Iris snorted. “Maybe your mother should have sewed her buttons better.” 

She flushed the toilet and stood, dipping her hands in the warm, soapy water in the basin as Julian cried in mock-indignation, “How dare you, Iris? My mother was a saint.” 

Iris smiled smugly to herself. “She must have been, to raise a troublemaker like you.” She heard the door open in her chambers; she poked her head out to see Julian slinging his medical bag over his shoulder; the silhouette he struck, hair mussed from their lovemaking, the gray shirt falling a little off his muscled shoulder, the leather pants that accentuated his long legs – it all sent Iris’s heart pounding, the slip between her legs warming. 

“Hurry back to me.” Iris murmured as she sunk back into the bed, gathering the pillow under her head and batting her eyes flirtatiously at Julian, arching her back playfully. He flushed very slightly, but smiled. 

“I’ll do my best. _Volim te_.” He said softly, and, with a last, lingering look at her, closed the door behind him. 

Iris opened her fingers, and reexamined the button in her palm before placing it on the bedside table on top of the Busanese snuff box, to be stowed away safely later. “_Volim te_, Ilya.” She whispered after him as sleep kissed her eyelids closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: this is extremely self-indulgent but I needed it during this last round of revisions on book 3 so fight me I guess


	11. Sonnet Lore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Julian and Iris meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Pang - Caroline Polachek **
> 
> _CW: no content warnings _

The ballroom was crowded with finely dressed partygoers. It was early in the night, before dinner had been served; the guests milled about, tentatively sipping drinks, sharing introductions as the researchers and doctors, some still dressed in their surgery whites, rubbed elbows with the heavily jeweled, furred, pampered nobles from the Heart and the territories who were bankrolling Nadia and Lucio's research venture. Julian was alone, for now, quietly observing; in his hand was a glass of wine – Sonnet Lore, fruity, spicy, dark, complex – that was nearly empty. He knocked back the final dregs, hardly tasting it, before weaving his way through the crowd to the bar, for his third drink of the night. He would be drunk by the end of it, hopefully enough to excuse himself early. This was not the sort of party he relished.

The bar was fairly crowded; Julian saw a few of his fellow doctors at one end, already a little rowdy for this subdued evening. Julian had half made up his mind to join him when a shimmer caught his eye – at the other end of the bar was a young woman, chewing on the corner of her lip. 

She looked a little uncomfortable in her finery, a tiered and billowing dress of shimmering silk taffeta the color of opals, a bright, blue-toned white that shifted lapis-turquoise in some angles, rose pink in others, a brilliant orange in the last. The several layers of flounced fabric couldn't hide her shape, the nip of her waist, the thick of her hips, the softness of her breasts against the dress's low, low neckline, revealing a long, elaborate necklace of pearls and seashells and gold. 

But it was the sight of her face that sliced through Julian's chest like an arrow, the full lips parted around a thought, the longish nose, slightly upturned, pierced both on one side and through the septum, the thick, shapely brows, the large, deep blue eyes. And her hair, silver blonde, tumbled down her shoulders to her waist in wild waves, looking as if even the most skillfull hands couldn't tame it most days. Julian wanted to run his hands through it, to smooth it down, to comb it...to wrap it around his fingers and pull.

Julian approached quietly behind her, trying not to startle her, but she rounded on him anyway, her eyes wide; he saw her eyes were not blue, but indigo, streaked with purple. He felt a familiar pull on the air around him; a magic user, the aura not unfamiliar, but different. He couldn't quite place it, even as she blushed and let her hands drop to her sides. 

"I'm so sorry." She blushed so prettily for him. "You startled me." 

"It's nothing." He responded, with raffish smirk he knew most couldn't resist. "Having trouble deciding?" 

She sighed. "I never drink wine. I'm more of a mead girl. But wine's all they have." 

"White or red?" 

She raised her eyebrows at him, dark eyes sparkling playfully, and he felt a hot little rush of desire in his groin. "What are you having? Red?" She nodded to his empty glass, still ringed with drips of magenta. 

Julian smirked, and turned to the bartender. "Two of the Sonnet Lore, please." 

The bartender was quick to pour, to hand them back to Julian; he carefully passed the glass to his companion. "Don't spill it on your lovely dress, now." He warned her, teasingly.

She snorted, looking down at her dress, the fingertips of one hand ghosting against her collarbone, the other wrapped elegantly around the wineglass; Julian couldn't help but glance at her bosom, the way her neckline split all the way down to her sternum, revealing two defined clefts, the sweet swell of each generous breast. Another little rush, hotter; he felt his cock stir in his pants. "I feel like a wedding cake." She admitted, smile replaced with an almost girlish furrow of her dark brows. "I almost didn't come because I didn't have anything to wear, but the Countess sent me this. Some Prakran designer. How she knew my measurements to the millimeter, I'll never know." 

"Well, for what it's worth...you look stunning." He raised his glass to her, smirk arcing on his lips; she chuckled, and clinked her glass to his. 

"I didn't catch your name." She took a small sip, and Julian relished the little start she gave, the tiny, quivering moan of bliss that crossed her lips as she tasted it, smiled fully now, not a smirk, not a simper, a smile that revealed two sets of deep dimples on full cheeks. He could have swooned at the way his core cinched now, the seat of his pants feeling very, very tight. 

"Dr. Julian Devorak. Call me Julian."

The smile fell away, replaced now with another smirk, a twinkle in her dark-bright eyes, lips stained ink-dark from the Sonnet Lore. "Iris Keshet. I own and run the Indigo Child in the Market district. If you're ever in need of rare herbs or a potion, I'm your girl." She raised her eyebrows now. "Or you could just stop in for tea. Asra keeps us stocked." 

"Asra?" Julian laughed now, one loud bark, as the magician appeared at Iris's elbow, wrapping his strong, soft hands around her waist, lips just brushing against the small corner of skin where her neck and shoulder met. He was wearing a shirt of the same material as her dress, a beautifully embroidered vest, and a flowing skirt of regal orange, tied with a belt studded with giant chunks of turquoise. 

"I'm so sorry, Iris.” He purred in her ear. “I couldn't ignore a summons from the Count. I see you've had good company, though." He couldn't help but grin at the sight of his friend. 

Julian's eyes sparkled, and his smirk widened. "This is the mystery woman? You didn't tell me she was such a vision." 

Asra snorted, but Iris archly raised an eyebrow. She could do roguish too; Julian decided it looked better on her than him, or Asra. "You might have some competition, Asra." She teased, giving Julian a saucy, knowing wink. 

She laughed as Julian's coy veneer dropped with a blush, a soft stammer. Asra snorted again, and tugged at her hand, spotting someone else across the crowd; she turned back to Julian with a little wink. "See you soon, Julian." 

He followed their path until they slipped into the crowd, taking another sip of wine, eyes tracing the quiet arc of her back, the slope of her neck, turning over the sound of her name on his tongue. Iris, Iris. Iris...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> Have something short and sweet from the cutting room floor. Happy Valentine's day, should you choose to celebrate. 
> 
> Alternatively, happy self-love day. <3


	12. Rice Pudding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Iris and Asra relax in Nopal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Iron & Wine - Fever Dream**
> 
> _CW: No content warnings_

Iris and Asra stood side by side, hip to hip, at a kitchenette of baked, caramel-colored clay; the dry desert heat enveloped them, sweat dripping down her neck, his bare back. Iris ground cardamom pods, cloves, and the ends of fragrant cinnamon bark in a mortar and pestle, while Asra tended to a bubbling pot over the small stove, stirring frequently; he kept stealing glances at her out of the corner of his eye, the way she ran her tongue, her teeth over her bottom lip, the way she furrowed her brows in concentration, the exact same way her brows furrowed when she was focused on other tasks. The way she subconsciously swiveled her hips with the movement of the pestle, just enough to rustle the hem of her skirt around her knees, just enough for Asra to notice, to dream. 

With a satisfied hum, she reached over his arm, damp skin just brushing as she tipped the mortar into the pot; he stirred the spices in, then fixed the lid on the pot, setting the wooden spoon down with a soft, satisfied clack. He turned to Iris, eyes absolutely wicked. “It will be a while before the rice softens.” He observed casually, his voice a low purr. “What should we do to pass the time?” His hands were skimming over her waist, bare in the dry desert heat; he walked her the two steps back to the adobe wall, pressing her into it as his lips grazed against hers. 

She pulled back with a playful snort. “It seems like you already have some ideas.” 

Asra laughed, deep and soft. “I was watching you grind the spices.” He murmured into her ear, his fingertips dragging down her navel, to the soft, billowing white fabric that swam over her hips. “You do it so well...I couldn’t help but imagine you...” A rosy flush bloomed on his cheeks as he trailed off, as his fingertips slid across her glistening skin.

Iris chuckled, fully, musically, nibbling softly on Asra’s neck. “Oh?” His hands were wrapping firmly around her hips now, pressing into hers so she could feel the stirring of his sex; she pressed back, circling her hips languidly, and he groaned, far louder than she thought he would. “We should move to the bed, then, don’t you think?” 

Without another word, Asra lifted her by her hips and walked her to the bed, sitting with her in his lap; she ground down hard, a smirk flitting across her face as he groaned loudly into her neck again, his hands swimming under the hem of her skirt, searching for her heat.

“Ah-ah.” Iris tutted, sitting up on her knees, shooing his hand away. “Did I say you could touch?” Asra hummed softly, looking up at her through his feather-white eyelashes, eyes dancing mischievously as her hand snaked down the plush rise and dip of her own belly. 

“If I can’t touch, are you going to give me a show?” He murmured as he nuzzled his face against the softness of her stomach; she merely smiled impishly, her hand smoothing past her mound to the fleshy swell of her thigh. Her fingers wove into the tasseled hem of her skirt as she pulled it up over her hips, revealing her mons, the dense patch of soft curly hair, the sweetness already spreading over her labia. 

Still, she traced the fingertips of her other hand over Asra’s cheekbone, down his jaw to his parted lips; without even guiding him, he licked two of her fingers into his mouth, sucking softly and flitting his tongue over them while meeting Iris’s gaze, his eyes dilating slowly. He released her fingers with a quiet pop of his lips; her eyes never left his as she pressed her soaked fingers against her clit, whimpering as little sparks danced across her hips. 

Asra moaned, and leaned back a little, breaking their gaze almost apologetically so he could watch her as she slowly circled, pressing her hips forward into her hand; she threw her head back, feeling the sweat drip down her neck, her back, as she whined feebly with her own pleasure. Warm fingers danced over her ribs, pushing her cropped peasant blouse up; she let Asra play with her breast, cupping it as he rubbed his thumb over her hardening areola. 

Kneeling on her knees over Asra while he leaned back, his weight balanced on one elbow, her sex was perfectly positioned at his eye level; when she writhed a little as the pressure built in her pelvis, he groaned, and when she cried out softly as a pleasurable pang seized her, he muttered, “Oh, Iris… Iris...” his fingers slipping down from her breast to her waist, gripping tightly. 

Iris was rutting into her own hand now, her hips working as her soaked fingers fluttered against her clit, the pressure building like the dense, electric air before a storm; her eyes rolled, and she whined again, searching desperately for her release as she bit her lip hard. 

The hand on her waist tightened, gently pulling her forward; Asra’s lips latched around her clit as he leaned back flush on the bed, bringing Iris with him, framing his face with the fullness of her thighs, his hands gripping her hips. She couldn’t help but grind herself against his firm, skillful tongue as it pressed hard against her. Asra moaned, loudly, over and over, and the vibrations rose through her sex like a peal of thunder reverberating from the earth; with a little shout, Iris came, passing her hips over Asra’s tongue in long, languid strokes as she quivered over him, her legs shaking from the exertion, the aching delight. 

Asra hummed with satisfaction, covering her wetness with open-mouthed kisses and rubbing her thighs with lazy, loving strokes as she slowly dropped back into reality. When she flitted her eyes down to his, her mouth wide and panting, there was a soft flash of purple light, of warmth, as he lifted her back onto his hips, where his erection was startlingly hard and hot against Iris’s bare skin; he had sloughed of his pants at some point, probably with his magic.

Iris ground down hard, once, coating his length in her slip before she reached down and guided him into her, her eyes dark and wild as she and Asra never broke their gaze, heavy and passionate; Asra groaned loudly and Iris mewed, stretching to accommodate him, before circling her hips against his. Asra couldn’t help but gasp as he sank further into her, his cock slinking and smoothing through her, gripping him in the wet silk of her heat.

“Asra...” Iris murmured softly, her voice choked; he responded with a trill of delight as he arched his back, pressing his pelvis even more into hers as she gyrated against him. Pleasure swelled through her, hot and sudden, and she increased her pace, planting her hands against the muscles that swathed his stomach. 

When Iris came again, she threw her head back and keened as it spasmed through her hips, radiating down to her knees, up to her sternum, seeming to stop her heart as her eyes swam. Asra grunted through his bitten lips and his hips stuttered, a warning; Iris nodded wildly, letting her eyes meet his as she cried out loudly, riding out her orgasm. With a grimace, a long tremulous cry, Asra came inside her, pumping his hips wildly, erratically up into hers – when he fell back heavily into the smooth sheets of the bed, Iris dropped down onto his chest, panting softly, her hips still stuttering from her orgasm. 

They laid together; Asra’s hands ran over Iris’s back, her shoulders, cooing sweetly in her ear as Iris kissed Asra’s neck, his cheeks, the corners of his lips. Then they were still, Iris nuzzled into his chest, her ear pressed against his pounding heartbeat. It wasn’t long before Iris was dozing in Asra’s arms, the gentle susurrus of her deep, sleeping breath lulling him into an almost meditative state, his lips pressed to her forehead when he whispered, unbidden: “I would do anything for you, my heart.” 

She didn’t even stir in her sleep; only when the lid rattled against the pot on the stove did Asra move her, rolling her tenderly onto her side as he slipped out of her, slipped out of the bed, leaving her stretched luxuriously between the sheets, absolutely glowing in the heavy afternoon sun...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> If you can believe, this little drabble was cut from the Moon sequence.
> 
> Enjoy~


	13. The Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Asra acquiesces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ariana Grande - Needy**
> 
> _CW: rough sex, kinky sex, references to blood magic_
> 
> Everything is SSC. Consent, negotiation, communication, and boundaries y'all <3

**1\. No Names**

This was the first rule to go. 

After that first night, the key in Ilya’s palm, the knife’s blade blooming across his lifeline, his body bent over the round table, long fingers fisted in the wobbly tablecloths Opal had crocheted in her last months – they’d needed rules. Boundaries. Asra didn’t need the sight to see where this could head, if he wasn’t careful. 

Five rules, five simple rules. Asra thought he’d made it painfully easy for Ilya, uncomplicated enough that they could each get what they needed, yet structured enough that he could maintain his boundaries, the quiet, sacred altar at his center, to be untouched, forever, forever. 

Ilya didn’t care, at first; as promised, he took what he was given. A slap across the face followed by the gentle drag of amber fingertips, the sharp jerk of his neck as his unruly waves sprung from between ringed knuckles, unwhispered promises between growls, bites, purrs, the animal sounds of fucking. 

Then – it was his fault, really. The first lapse, he let it go. A whimper, hardly a whisper of his name, when his fingers had ghosted around Ilya’s cock one-too-many times, and the doctor writhed, whined, desperately, desperately. “Asra...” He’d begged, and then gasped, taking it back into his throat, knowing he’d crossed a line. He let it go, his oiled palm wrapping around the shaft finally, earning another gasp, as he let his hand drag up the warm length, let the tightness draw out Ilya’s orgasm, slowly, slowly, slowly. 

The second time, how could he punish him? It was a moan, long and delicious, when Asra was inside him, his hips already set in a brutal pace, the kind that Ilya begged for. When the name crossed Ilya’s lips with a flailing arch of his back, “Aasraaa – ahhhh...” His voice was so wanton, so gone, it was enough, to make Asra come; as he spilled into Ilya, the warmth, the twitching, the stilling, spurred on his own orgasm, spurting onto his flexing abdomen, so beautiful, so desperate, so shameful, Ilya flushed and blushing, that Asra couldn’t bring himself to punish him. 

It was the first rule to go. 

**2\. No Pet Names, Only Master**

It was in the moments after that Asra found himself giving in. A glass of water turned into a cup of tea, a cup of tea turned into sharing cobbled-together dinners from scraps in the larder. Soon, Asra found himself thinking of meals for two when he wandered between the stalls in the market, eyeing the pale Gaulic potatoes he had no fondness for, mindful of spicy foods, despite Ilya’s protestations he could handle it (he couldn’t). Though the smell made him queasy, Asra started stocking fresh coffee beans with the teas. If Ilya mentioned running low on a medicinal herb at the clinic, Asra set it aside, though he thought at first it was for her, not for him.

This rule, this one wasn’t broken during sex. 

Ilya laid dazed in the bed, thighs twitching from being ridden. Asra had started the kettle – magicked the kettle to the heat – even before he’d finished, preparing for the after, something to help settle them both. It was screaming softly, insistently, as Asra came, wild, gentle, over Ilya’s chest, ribbon after ribbon after ribbon; Ilya came too, the pulsing, the clenching, too much, too much. 

Even with the spend inside him, Asra slid off Ilya to unseat the kettle from the heat, to steep the rose petal tea he loved, that she loved, to sweeten it with honey, like she loved, cum trickling down his leg, cool, cool. 

From the bed, Ilya groaned, neck long against the pillow, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “_Med._” He moaned, voice still shaky. “_Mi- ... mirišem na med._”

“_Med?_” Asra found himself asking, his voice gentle, indulgent, as he guided the spoon to stir, looking over his shoulder to the bed. 

Ilya’s eyes fluttered open. “H-honey...” He explained, voice still tremulous, fucked-out. “It means honey. I smell honey.”

Asra only smiled, picking up both the mugs, gently steaming. “I made tea.” 

“It’s...” Ilya’s breath caught in his throat, shuddering, his chest still shaking. “...familiar.” 

Asra gently placed the tea on the bedside table, his own resting warm against his palm, the smell making his heart ache, comfortably, uncomfortably, and still – his heartbeat settled, slowly, slowly. “Don’t let it get cold, Ilya.” He sat on the edge of the bed, careful, away. 

Ilya made no response, only curled toward Asra, the S of his body wrapped around Asra’s bowed back, his cheek pressed to the swell of his hip. “_Med..._” Ilya whispered, hardly a breath against Asra’s thigh, lips quiet against warm skin, the golden, tempered swell. 

The smile melted from Asra’s face, and he tensed for a moment, ready to turn cold, ready to turn away. But then Ilya’s cool hand slid up his back, then down, the same rhythm as his evening breath, the same motion Asra had seen, watched, so many times, as Ilya soothed her in the after, grounding her as she drifted back to him from her sea of bliss. Asra let his fingers trail through Ilya’s mussed waves, over and over again, and he said nothing. 

The next time they fucked, Ilya on his knees, his hands tied behind his back, his sweet warm mouth around Asra’s cock, it was Asra who broke the rule. Ilya gagged, groaned, and tears swam down his beet-red cheeks, and Asra could barely stand it. “You look so good like that, honey.” He’d murmured, growled, as he thrusted into Ilya’s mouth, and Ilya, Ilya’s watery gaze washed up to his, so affection-starved, so pathetic, so lonely, that Asra nearly came then and there. 

It was the third rule to go.

**3\. No Kissing on the Mouth**

Asra had stopped sleeping with women, even before she died. He’d tried, of course he’d tried: anything to chase back the shadows that festered, to distract him from the bone-deep ache of her absence. But everything brought him back to her, all those feminine hands hers, all skin the smooth satin of her thigh; he just had to close his eyes and touch the silken slip, the velvet grip of another, and she was there, her voice a giggle then a sigh in his ear, her fingernails raking down his back. At first it was like magic, like they had never been apart – but eventually, even that wasn’t enough, or it was too much, or it had never been enough and he was just allowing himself to realize it. Asra didn’t know. 

Men were less likely to remind him. Strong hands, churning backs, firmer thighs, deeper voices. It was easier to let them take control, turn him over, soften him and spread him wide and slow, he was theirs, awash in the warm watercolor fog of relenting. But even then, there was the threat of something – a caress of his side, a huff of laughter against the crease of his hip, and once, horribly, both hands on his cheeks, pulling him down for a kiss – that could plunge him back into that void, nose and throat filled with stinging salt, drowning, drowning. 

And then, there was Ilya… Ilya, who’d uncaged a strange creature inside of him. A creature that in equal parts wanted to tear apart and hold tenderly together, a creature who could, for a brief moment, forget entirely about her, focused only on the pathetic man under him, begging, pleading, for any scrap of mercy thrown his way. He was as lost and hollow and heartbroken as Asra, but with no memory of why, his gray eyes empty, empty and misty, as if he would cry at any moment, but Asra almost never saw Ilya cry. 

Unless it was during sex. 

That first time, it was so quiet that Asra might not have even known if he hadn’t felt the wet on his cheek, pressed to Ilya’s, his body arced over his back in the bed. He’d immediately called the safeword, made to pull out, but Ilya grasped his wrist in his long, shaky fingers. “I’m… I’m fine, I just...” He let out one soft, silent huff of laughter, the corners of his mouth turning even as more tears fell. “I… I lost myself.” He turned back to Asra, smile bashful even as his lips wobbled. “Please… don’t stop for my sake…” 

Asra’s response was to roll him over, their chests pressed together as Asra took it slow, quietly gauging his reactions. Ilya turned his head away, as if to hide, as if Asra watching him cry was too much – the tears rushed now, his face crumpled, his eyes scrunched shut, the sob strangled in his throat. 

Gently, Asra grasped Ilya’s chin, turned his face to meet his gaze – Ilya whimpered, his gray eyes drowning now, cheeks wet, grimacing. “Please...” He’d whined, miserable, flustered. “I can’t – I don’t know why, but don’t – don’t stop, Asra, master, please, _please_ –” 

Asra shushed him, still moving inside him, so slowly now that Ilya shuddered, moaned, still weeping, and Asra moved before he realized what he was doing. Their lips crushed together, and Ilya gasped, then groaned, melting, still shaking with sobs, but with Asra kissing him, rocking him, he relaxed, the tension melting from him like steam from an overworked engine. Asra would curse himself later, the crack in his resolve, but at least like that, in that quiet moment, his heart didn’t hurt so much, even if Ilya was still crying when he came, Asra’s hand fisted around him, between their sweat-slicked, slowly churning bodies. 

They would never kiss each other in greeting, nor in good-bye, nor in the stolen moments between their play sessions. But there were times when Asra couldn’t help himself, if Ilya craned his neck up and his lips wobbled, his tell, Asra would kiss him down, whether the tears fell or not. Ilya would steal kisses, too, during, and Asra would punish him, just as he liked, but there were times when Asra barely noticed, their tongues still exploring, their lips bruised, long after they’d both come down from their post-coital high. 

And, in the middle of the night, if Ilya couldn’t sleep, Asra would kiss him, magic warm against both of their lips, a spell he had long perfected. Sleep had been a cruel mistress to her, too. 

**4\. No Staying the Night**

Ilya was like wild grape; Asra would try to trim him back, cut him down just enough, but the moment he turned his back, Ilya crept right back in, stronger, more resilient, gentle tendrils sinking into the brick Asra had built around himself. A robe of threadbare flannel tucked in the back of his closet. A notebook, then reference books, piled sloppily on the little table by the window, a candle to read by that Asra replaced often. A favored mug that Asra steeped Ilya’s tea in. He couldn’t recall a night Ilya came to him that they didn’t have sex, but what followed – shared meals, leisure, muted, playful conversation that veered, sometimes, to the affectionate – bordered dangerously on intimacy. 

And then – it had been an accident, a lapse. Ilya fell asleep after, his long limbs coiled up like a baby’s, fingers threaded together on Asra’s stomach, cheek pressed to the firm of Asra’s chest. 

Normally, Asra would have shook him awake and sent him away with a smack on the ass, but that night… the ache was too much, throbbing dully behind Asra’s eyes with no sting of tears for relief, clamping hard on his skittering heart – and he was _there_, Ilya was there, sleeping so peacefully, his voice soft as it hummed in his throat, unburdened from everything Asra had seen, everything he had done for her, everything Asra hated, hated and loved and envied and detested him for. 

And so Asra fell asleep beside Ilya, arms around him, nose and lips pressed to auburn, smelling of the sea, leather, the quiet, human-inhuman churngut of blood. 

In the night, Ilya woke with a jerk, a gasp that jolted Asra awake too; Ilya’s heart hammered against Asra’s chest in that panicked, uncertain moment, before he tried to gently slip out of Asra’s arms, trying not to disturb Faust and Sitara, curled together at the end of the bed. 

Asra thought to let him go, to pretend to sleep, but the lonely was too much. “It’s late.” He’d whispered. “Stay. It...” The words were sour in his throat, and he hated it, hated that tonight, he wanted it. “...It’s okay.” 

Asra didn’t blame him, the way his brows furrowed, confused, eyes still hazy with sleep – but he let his head drop back onto Asra’s shoulder, a wordless, grateful acquiescence. Asra fell asleep to the sound of him snoring, stroking his wild hair like a cat’s. 

After that, it was just easier to let it happen. At least, that was what Asra told himself. 

**5\. No Saying "I Love You"**

Even after the other rules dissolved in the acid-creep of time, Asra held hard and fast to the last one. No saying “I love you.” This was sex, nothing else. Nothing more. Asra would remind Ilya, over and over. 

He reminded him when he ignored him in the palace library, when they were dining with Nadia, even as her wine-dark eyes darted between the two of them, knowing, knowing. He reminded him in their sex, the aftercare, nearly everything carefully negotiated, carefully calculated, the blips and lapses always followed with chilliness, with silence, with confusion. He reminded him in the way he would always ask Ilya for something in return, a slice of his palm, the blood dripped in the center of a sigil; a lock of auburn hair laid in front of a skull, the mandible gone, on an altar in the corner, surrounded by dried foxgloves, whitewinter lilies. Once, terrifyingly, sex over a sigil that spanned the narrow width of the flat, the rugs flung back, rough gemstones dotting the edge, flowers draped in bowls of water. 

And yet, all the signs were there. They would go to sleep in each other’s arms, and Asra would wake to find Ilya’s long fingers twined in his. The half-lidded, sleep-hazed way Ilya would look at him in the lingering minutes between waking and rising, the way he would speak Nivenese to him in hushed, hallowed tones. The way Asra would respond, in Nuru, smirking, even as he stretched, disentangled himself from the twisted, thrashed-open sheets. The way Ilya would look at him during a scene, no matter how degrading, how vulnerable it left him – with absolute, unfailing trust. 

Asra ignored it; he had to. At this point, the pieces were falling together, every day a little closer. There were days on end where all he did was study, take notes, plan, until he was feverish and shaking. More than once, it was Ilya who found him, in the library, in the reading room, in the sweat-drenched bed, tomes and scrolls and notebooks circled around him like a sigil. It was Ilya who made him sleep, left water and tinctures on the bedside table, sometimes even bringing up food in the morning, making sure he ate. There were stretches of days that he couldn’t remember, hazy, desperate, that all ended with him waking up in Ilya’s arms, sometimes the doctor sleeping fully clothed in his bed, gloves and boots still on. By the time the autumn winds rustled through the Southern forest, and the leaves changed, Asra could feel the boding storm crackling under his fingertips, not quite anger, not quite sadness, but not quite nothing, either. 

And then – it happened. A cool night, one where Asra had pushed Ilya’s boundaries, perhaps purposefully. And Ilya knew it, the way Asra found him after all those hours alone, stomach slick with his own leak, writhing, whimpering, whining, at even the slightest touch. He came quickly, his entire body arching, but he said it then, over and over again, the sound turning Asra’s stomach as he came in Asra’s mouth. 

He could have let it go, as he did with everything else. He could have explained it away, the heat of the moment – it wouldn’t have been the first time, Asra knew, he’d seen, he’d revisited it over and over, his fingers intertwined in hers, her legs wrapped around his waist, her cries high and wild as she came, him moaning ecstatically in her ear. 

But he didn’t. He didn’t even watch as he told Ilya it had to end, didn’t watch as he sent him away, his back turned to him, fiddling with the kettle with shaking hands, his lip sunk into his lower lip, why, he couldn’t say. 

Asra waited, he waited, until he heard the door to the shop slam; still, it startled him, a jolt that clanged the kettle against the stove, as if he’d thought Ilya would come back, would implore him with those sea-gray eyes, and Asra would let this go, too, forgive, forget, because he had no fight left, or wanted no fight, how could he know the difference now? And yet, even as he counted the seconds between the sound, the deep breaths trembling in and out of him, seven counts in, seven counts out, he knew. Ilya was not coming back this time. He knew he was alone, no one’s eyes on him except Faust’s, sweetly imploring from her safe corner nest. He was alone, he was alone, as he had always been; he dropped to his knees, the kettle still in his hands, and he wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> Tried something a little different this time, loves - another piece that came from the Terrifying Ten challenge. I'd love to know what you think.


	14. The Blue Glass Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Asra and Iris switch bodies. (Iris x Asra)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Bat for Lashes - Kids in the Dark **
> 
> _CW: No content warnings_
> 
> This was inspired by and written for [Kidlightnings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolver/pseuds/kidlightnings), who wrote [the fic that inspired this one.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18876988/chapters/48934118) Enjoy. <3

“Iris...” Asra’s voice was an exasperated chuckle as he stumbled a little, again – Iris saw the corners of his mouth turning as she looked back at him, his fingers wound through hers as she lead him through the forest, blindfolded. “...Where are we going?” 

She shushed him quietly, her voice rippling and low with laughter. “We’re almost there, I promise.” 

“You said that ten minutes ago.” 

“Well, this time, I mean it.” The ground under them shifted, rockier now, and the thick of the forest slowly gave way to the scrubbrush of the cliffs; Asra could smell the salt-tang of the sea, hear the cries of gulls, the whispered roar of the waves. “We’re here.” 

“Can I…?” Asra began, but the silk scarf was already slipping from his eyes, Iris’s fingers dusting gently through his hair – his eyes fluttered open to her, indigo eyes sparkling, smile wide, the setting sun haloed in her light hair, looped in two buns at her crown, waves loose around her shoulders. 

“Surprise.” She whispered, kissing his nose. “Happy birthday, my heart.” 

One of their Alban blankets, spread over a patch of brush-grass, overlooking the lemonstone cliffs over the Courageous sea, set with a modest picnic dinner of salad, fruit and cheese, spicy skink sausage, a startlingly blue bottle of wine, two modest mugs from the shop filled with sparkling pink. The sun setting behind them, a riot of violet, rose pink, soft streaks of magenta and topaz-yellow. And Iris, kneeling now on the blanket, the dark florals of her long skirt spread around her knees, looked up at Asra through long, dark eyelashes, the corners of her rosy mouth turned with mischief as she gestured to the spread. “What do you think?”

Asra smiled, his eyes shining as he sank down across from Iris with a little contented sigh. “It’s beautiful, Iris. Very romantic.” He plucked a green grape from its stem, leaned forward, pressed it against her mouth – she parted, her tongue soft and wet as it slipped out and rolled the grape between her lips, sucking it in with a luscious little pop. “But what if I’m not hungry?” 

“You’re always hungry.” Iris teased, her smirk widening to a smile, even as Asra leaned forward over the food, the wine, the space between them closing, electrifying. 

“I don’t want to waste this light.” Asra murmured, his lips mere centimeters from Iris’s now, his sturdy fingers snaking up her skirted thigh. “The food will still be here.” 

Iris laughed, fully now, eyes sparkling – she placed a finger on Asra’s lips, smile wicked even as he kissed her finger softly, then traced it with the wet velvet of his tongue, threatening to take the digit into his mouth. 

“If you absolutely can’t wait...” She crooned, eyes glimmering with mischief. “...I have another surprise for you.” She leaned away, slightly, picking up the mugs, the pink wine still fizzling slightly. 

Asra’s dreamy eyes darted down with an amused chuckle, soft and warm. “Wine, Iris? Hardly a surprise, knowing you...” 

“No, silly.” Iris’s grin was absolutely devilish now. “I… I’ve been working on this for months now. I finally got it to work.” Her eyes flashed, shimmering and dark, and for a moment, Asra felt breathless, lost in her, her beauty, her power. “I enchanted the bottle using water from the Universe’s womb, Asra. The spring in the cave. Anything put into it is imbued with the spring’s power. We’ll…” She paused, breathless, her cheeks pinking. “We’ll switch bodies.” 

Asra’s eyes flew wide, his mouth dropping open in astonishment. “Does it work?” 

Iris nodded, feverishly. “I tried it with Aster. It works.” 

“Oh, I would have loved to be a fly on the wall for that.” Asra teased, his voice low. 

Iris thumped her hand against his chest, the wine sloshing dangerously in the mug, before she pressed it into his hand. “Creep.” 

Asra took the mug from her, stared into the rippling surface of the rosy, bubbling wine. He could see the tiny opalescent arcs of Iris’s magic shimmering just under the surface, feel the gentle thrum of her magic, of the spring’s magic, even through the ceramic. “And what will we do once we’ve switched bodies?” He purred, looking up at Iris through his snowy eyelashes. 

“That’s entirely up to you.” Iris replied, her low voice smoky. She tapped the rim of her mug to his. “Cheers, and happy 23rd birthday.” 

“Cheers to you, Iris. My heart.” Iris thought she would combust, the way Asra’s eyes softened, darkened, as he took his sip, long, luscious, deep, their gazes never breaking as she took a drink of her own. 

Asra set his cup aside, his fingers warm around hers as he gently wrested the mug from her. “How long until it kicks in?” He asked quietly – he was so close to Iris that she could count the tangled threads of violet in his irises, illuminated, fiery, in that sunset light. 

“Not long.” Iris whispered. “When the body absorbs the alcohol.” She gasped softly as Asra’s hands wound behind her, guiding her backwards onto the grass. 

“However will we pass the time?” He murmured as he settled over her, one hand cradling her head as his fingers brushed, so sweetly, so gently, over her lips. 

Iris chuckled, the space between them galvanizing as she leaned up to him, pressing a quiet, feather-light kiss into his parted lips. “However you want, my heart.” 

With a satisfied hum, Asra kissed her back, fingers threading through her hair, palm soft against her cheek. She parted her lips for him, against the gentle press of his tongue, the tug of his teeth in her lower lip, and with a tiny moan, like the softest flush of the sea, they were entangled in each other. 

They could get lost in each other like this, Iris’s hands smoothing up the muscled slope of Asra’s back, tugging at the hem of his billowing shirt, Asra’s kisses lengthening, more insistent, as he traced the soft sinew of Iris’s neck, the gentle full of her arms and her shoulders, sliding down the straps that held up her soft lace blouse. The sun had almost set, the fiery light gleaming off the high arches of Asra’s brow, his cheekbones, when he pulled away from Iris, panting, before dipping down and kissing the bare swell of her breast. 

Iris whimpered softly, hands in his pillowy hair, like threads of the finest spun gold in the light, letting her head fall back against the grass – but then, strangeness, sweetness, blurring, her pleasure surged and ebbed as her vision shadowed and sparkled, she was so aware of her heartbeat in her chest under her fingertips, the cool, pebbling skin of a sternum, swathed in softness, in amber, lengthening light… 

She gasped, her eyes flying open – her fingers themselves were amber, sturdy, covered in rings, the carnelian, the peridot, the silver of lapis on her betrothal finger. The skin under them was creamy, half swathed in soft lace, half exposed, a rosebud nipple tightening in the cooling air, the elegant column of neck, the undulating blonde waves, buns already falling loose - 

Her own face craned up to her, a soft, berry-stain flush painting her full cheeks, pink lips parting as wide, indigo eyes dilated at the sight of her. “Iris?” Her own voice whispered, but it was different, strange, the intonation lower, the barest hint of blended accent, the inflection the same, the same as it always was when Asra breathed her name. 

She laughed – her voice was so low, rumbling in her chest – as the ringed fingers of her hand threaded with the elegant fingers of his. “It worked! It worked.” 

Asra laughed now, in her own voice, bubbling, mellisonant and sweet. “I thought you tested it?” 

“I did – we did – but still...” She sat up slightly, the sensations strange but delicious, the muscles girdling her so different than the soft, feminine body she was used to. “It still could have failed, still could have...” Her voice bled into a whimper as a wholly unfamiliar heat coiled in her, an insistent tightness straining, aching, between her legs. “It’s so different than I thought.” 

Asra’s smile widened, and he sat up with her, in her body, his fingertips trailing over the familiar swells of her breasts, her ribs, her belly. “I never doubted you.” He whispered to her – the sound, the sound of his words in her voice, made that tightness ache even more as her cock – Asra’s cock – twitch fully to hardness in his – her? – leggings. His grin, her grin, the two sets of dimples popping, was wicked as he slipped the blouse off of his shoulders, his fingers slipping into the waist of the long floral skirt. “I want you to see how beautiful you are, Iris. How beautiful you are to me.” 

Iris’s shaking hands – so much larger than her own, the fingers thicker, stronger – met his, pulling the skirt down. “But… it’s your birthday…” 

He shushed her, softly, leaning forward now as he toed off the soft leather boots, shrugged off the skirt. “This is what I want.” He murmured, soft, full, pink lips pressing now against the golden column of Iris’s neck – his own neck – as he fumbled with the stays of the thin leggings that swathed Iris’s hips. “I want you to know what you do to me.” 

His hand slipped between the stays, palming her once – she felt her whole body shudder in delight – before he drew away, instead laying back on his elbows, face craned up to her, her own eyes glinting with his particular blend of wicked mischief and soft adoration. She drank in the sight, trying to savor it, trying to see it with his eyes – the fullness of her breasts, the constellation of moles on her stomach, the dimpled sweetness of her hips. The – the pretty shape of her mound, the blush of her sex, bare and glistening already with slip, catching the lengthening, gold and rose light, as Asra crooked one leg out for her, eyelashes fluttering knowingly. 

She moved without thinking – her lips, Asra’s lips, full and tawny and soft, on the warm skin of his belly, her belly, kissing and kissing and kissing until she could feel him tremble and writhe under her, soft mews and giggles and whimpers in her voice, until she was mouthing down the taper of her own thighs, nostrils flooded with her own scent, oranges, irises, rain, cream. Her lips lingered on the little bony swell above her knee, the give of her own loveliness under her palms, when she looked to Asra and barely breathed, “Is this what I do to you?” 

“My heart.” He whispered, reaching for her, fingertips running through his own curls, down his neck, grasping the shoulder that had fallen out of his oversize shirt. “Imagine it a hundredfold.” 

Iris chuckled, let him peel the shirt from her shoulders as she moved forward, urging his legs apart with the softest touches on the inside of his thighs. “And do you understand now what _you_ do to _me_?” Her fingertips ghosted over the blooming petals of her sex, flushed and wet and begging, and Asra arched, gasping desperately. 

“Iris...” He was even more flushed now, neck and shoulders blushing brightly as he looked at her, as the crickets started chirping, warming up for their nightly orchestra. With his lips parted like that, legs splayed open, his eyes, her eyes, so dark they were almost void, Iris felt the most powerful surge yet, searing like fire through her. “Iris, I… will you… please…” He bit his lip, swollen and soft, and Iris knew. 

“Shhhh.” Even that soft exhalation was low and rumbling in her chest. “Of course. I want to.” She moved slowly, kissing the sensitive seams between thigh and hip, the pretty swell of mound, the rosy, swollen lips – she couldn’t help but look up, look straight into Asra’s eyes, as she swiped once, twice, across the peak of her pleasure, the tender bloom of nerves, mimicking the way he teased her apart under his tongue. 

Asra moaned, twitched, fingers tightening in his curls as he wrapped his legs – Iris’s legs – around her shoulders, hiking hips closer to searching lips, wrapping softly around his glistening clit. “Iris!” His voice was already ragged, shattered, back arching as Iris dove in with fervor, alternating sucking and lapping and kissing, until Asra was panting, whining, urging her on with gentle tugs of his hair, rolls of her hips. 

And with each sound, her desire – Asra’s desire – grew, ached, until it was practically unbearable. The taste, human and bright and luscious, soaking her lips and chin, dripping from her tongue, drove her wild, her nerves raw and sizzling as the urges flushed through her, urges to flip Asra over and take him, to throw his legs over her shoulders and make him squirt all over her, to bounce him in her body on his own cock, to make him scream her name; but still she went slow, slow, as Asra did with her pleasure, until he was contorted under her, whimpering into the graying light, calling her name to the twinkling stars as he came in her body. 

Panting, Iris rested her cheek against the pretty hill of hip as Asra’s vision spun back to him in gasps; his core was still spasming when he tugged gently on Iris’s hair, pulling her up to him for a kiss full of fervor and tongue. “It’s not fair.” He whispered shakily against her lips. “That you can come like that, however many times you want.” 

Iris chuckled, Asra’s own golden smile shining back at him. “However many times you want me to, you mean.” She rested her forehead against his, her hands swimming up to his cheeks, still so warm and flushed. “It’s perfectly fair.” 

Asra mirrored her, her own delicate, trembling hands tracing her cheeks, thumbing the unreal swells of his cheekbones. “I would never deny you, my heart.” He murmured, voice still leaden and hazy. 

“Nor I you.” Iris whispered back, kissing him again, and again. “Do you want to try…?” 

He nodded quietly against her skin, hands swimming down to her shoulders, strong, muscled, his own amber skin rippling under his fingers as Iris fumbled out of the leggings. She allowed herself a stroke or two – it was so strange, to feel its heat under her fingers and the surge of relief, of pleasure, that flowed through her – before she knelt between Asra’s parted, trembling thighs, thumbing the slip over the clit as she adjusted, lined up. “Are you ready?” 

Asra bit his lip, her lip, and looked up at her, that lovely flush painting her cheeks – did it drive him as wild as it drove her to see, to watch her chest rise and fall with shaky breath as lilac light flooded the little field, a warmth radiating down, down her meridian, settling between her legs. She touched that lovely flush on his cheeks, thumb passing over her lips, he was kissing her palm in reassurance as she pressed forward, slowly, so slowly. It was indescribable, the feeling of her body welcoming his, it was overwhelming, the warmth, the wet, the depth…

“How do you last?” Iris gasped, trembling, fingers swimming, digging, into the give of his thigh. 

“I know what’s possible.” Asra responded, his breath hitching even as he smirked – oh, his voice, _her voice_, was wicked, sending a flushed heat down her meridian, into the strange, twitching creature between her legs. “Just, ah – just go slow, and a little shallower, then –” His voice bled into a low moan as she pumped her hips tentatively; she felt the head brush against something tender, spongy, giving.

“Gods, Iris, is that –” He moaned again, louder this time, his chin – oh gods, her chin, not his squared jaw, amber skin, but the delicate creaminess of her neck – flung back, as Iris slowly sank into a steady rhythm, unfamiliar muscles in her legs – _Asra’s_ legs – working, flexing, pumping. “Is – is _that_ what it feels like?”

She nodded feverishly, her mouth dropping open, it was so _tight_, so welcoming, like she had always meant to be inside, and it took all of her willpower to keep her pace even and gentle. Asra mewled, reaching for his own amber hand, guiding it to the glistening bud between Iris’s legs, thighs pooled against the muscles of Asra’s trunk as Iris moved. She stroked it, slow, slow, in time with her thrusts, her thumb pressing just so against the place she loved, the place she craved his knowing touch. 

Asra bucked against her, his face flushed, his teeth gritted as he fisted one hand in the grass under his back, the other sliding up the slope of Iris’s breasts, the nipple tightening under his fingers. “Oh, Arcana, Iris, _Iris_ –” He whined desperately as his own body rutted into him, a sheen of sweat already slicking Iris’s shoulders, Asra’s shoulders, the practiced muscles taking over for Iris even as she strained, focusing on Asra’s pleasure in her body, willing herself not to come, not to disappoint – 

She knew, they both knew, when release licked Asra’s insides like fire, when Iris’s rippling belly shook and cinched – Asra’s cries grew loud and ragged as the whole world crashed down around him, Iris’s entire body convulsing as she just slowed her thrusts, whimpering in the low baritone that rumbled in her throat. How, how, could he ever keep himself together when it _pulsed_ like that, gripping, surging, even hotter and wetter and softer than Iris ever thought possible? And when Asra keened in her voice, absolute nonsense, Nuru, reedy pleas, whispered promises, as the aftershock of orgasm blanked through him, long, dark eyelashes fluttering against dimpled cheeks as he settled. 

Iris touched him, the silky softness of her own skin, his sturdy, ringed fingers grazing against the sensitive curves of the feminine waist, the quivering belly, the heaving breasts splayed out before her, as Asra panted, recovered, his eyes lidded as he gazed up at Iris. “_Sayang_...” He stammered. “_Sayang abdi_, my Gods...” 

Iris could hardly keep her voice even as she still thrust into him, slower, gentler, but insistent, her core tight, her muscles begging, her nerves sizzling. “Yes, my heart?” She murmured, voice thin. 

“Can I… let me...” Asra could hardly finish his thoughts as he craned up towards her, delicate fingers carding in his own white curls, urging her backwards as they slipped apart. Iris obliged, lying back on her elbow, one hand under Asra’s – fuck, _her_, ass, it was so soft, so warm, so full of give, as she gave it a firm squeeze – how did Asra keep himself from touching it all the time?

Her own face blinked back, down, at her, Asra’s warmth, the mischievous turn of her own full lips as he smirked, eyes still dark and blown, her long hair mussed and wild from orgasm. Asra straddled her, her own fingers wrapping around her cock – she moaned desperately as Asra chuckled, willed herself not to buck up into his hand. 

“Do you want to know how it feels when you ride me?” He whispered, his voice low and heavy and soft with want. 

Iris had hardly murmured her consent, a whimpered, pathetic “...Yes...” cock twitching, jumping, under Asra’s touch, when he guided her into him and sank down with one liquid, needy motion. They both gasped, their gazes meeting – Iris could feel the walls of her sex stretching to accommodate the new angle, Asra’s girth, and Asra groaned, eyes lidded and dusky, cheeks flushed as he brushed Iris’s long hair over his shoulders and planted his hands on Iris’s firm stomach, fingers trembling. 

“Fuck, Iris...” He whispered. “Your body… it feels…” He rocked his hips experimentally against the smooth, firm plane of his own pelvis, and quivered with pleasure as the clit rubbed against warm skin, still slicked from his last orgasm. “It feels _so_ good…” He moved in earnest now, rolling and grinding his hips, leaning on Iris, and the pressure felt unbearable, beautiful, so smooth, so lush and hot, so perfect. 

But it was the watching that Iris loved, the way her own hips flexed and dimpled, her back arched, the taper of her ribs and the rolls of her waist, her breasts, between her lovely arms, as Asra moved – and the touching, Asra’s ringed hands moving as if on their own, grasping at bucking hips, tracing up the delicious slope of belly, cupping the sweetness of her breasts. And Asra, Asra was in bliss, lips between white teeth, neck rolling, mewling with each press of skin on skin. 

“I see why you love this.” Iris murmured, her voice dark and teasing; the O of Asra’s mouth turned into a wry smile, a witty comeback on his tongue, but it was cut off by a loud moan, a little spurt of heat as his – Iris’s, her body’s – pleasure mounted again, insistent, greedy. 

“A-ah! – L…likewise…” Asra managed between pants. “But – please, Iris, I need –” 

Iris didn’t need to be asked again, her fingers slipping between slicked thighs, twirling the way she would when she touched herself on her own. Asra cried out, throwing his head back, tossing her long hair, whining and whimpering until Iris felt it, the fluttering, the squeezing, the new hot slip flowing from him, he was _squirting_, by the gods, coming around her cock, her hand, coating her in his ecstasy – 

She gasped – her entire core seized, white-hot pleasure searing through her, each of Asra’s muscles contracting sharply and then unspooling with release. “Asra – Asra, I’m –” She whimpered. 

Asra slipped off her, leaning down to take her – fuck, _his_ – cock in his mouth, to catch her cum, but it was too late. She was coming, it was spurting out of her in hot, delicious gushes, onto Asra’s parted lips, her parted lips, his cheeks, his neck, his chest, her chest, oh, why was it so _hot_, so unbelievably sexy, to see her own face covered in thick threads of pearly cum, to watch Asra swipe her glistening tongue over her lips and groan at the taste of his own release, to drag _her_ fingertips across _her_ cheek and lick _her_ fingers clean like he was a starved man?

“Asra...” She moaned, as he arched over her, pressed her fingers to his lips – that familiar taste on her tongue, sharp but delicate, floral, bitter, made her head spin, even as Asra magicked the rest away, even as he nestled into her, his head on her shoulder, her waves spilling onto the grass as the stars flickered against the indigo sky above them. Iris wrapped him up in her arms, his strong arms, arms she loved having wrapped around her waist, her shoulders, and kissed the top of his head, the way he kissed her in the after. 

“That...” Asra laughed, softly, breath huffing against Iris’s neck. “Was one of the best birthday gifts I’ve ever gotten.” 

“It’s not quite done yet.” She teased him, amber fingers in his hair now. “We won’t switch back until the alcohol breaks down in the body.” 

He sat up against her, his smile wicked, the two dimples, the bright eyes. “Should we drink more, then?” 

It was only when dawn painted the next morning’s sky with her lavenders and lemon yellows that Iris awoke in Asra’s arms, in her body, her own body, its softness, its sweetness, heavy with exhaustion, weightless with heavenly bliss. She huddled closer to Asra under the blanket, kissed the golden slope of his cheek, the tawny turn of his lips, and fell back asleep to his low, sleepy murmurings, to the slow beat of his heart in her ear.


	15. The Clouds Over the New Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Julian offers Iris some relief. (Iris x Julian)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** James Blake - You're Too Precious**
> 
> _CW: PERIOD SEX. This is 100% about period sex - DD;DNE._
> 
> I do NOT remember who wrote on Tumblr about Julian being the type to 'tell you about the medical benefits of period sex while literally having sex with you' but... that's part of where this came from. I tried to find you, y'all. I tried. Credit is waiting for you should you ever decide to come out of the woodwork.

The clouds over the new moon. The weeping of the fallow field. The monthly visit from your least-favorite relative. Since she was old enough to bleed, Iris had found the euphemisms obnoxious, obnoxious and unnecessary – she’d preferred plain language, straightforward, no beating around the bush. Her menses. Her period. Her monthly bleeding.

And yet, she was not the type to talk about it, to bellyache when it hit. She powered through, even when the cramps were at their worst. And the cramps had always been bad, since she was a teen; on the first day her mother, and then her aunt, and then Asra, would brew her a blend of tea that had been in their family for years, fennel and ginger and dandelion steeped until it was brown, brown and pungent. 

It offered little balm, truly, only the feeling of something warm in her stomach, the quiet comfort of someone taking care of her, politely asking the stove salamander to heat up a pillow of lavender-scented rice for her, draping a blanket over her shoulders as she curled up, crunched up, on the sofa, or wallowed the day way in bed. 

No such luck today. She was running the shop alone, Asra traveling to acquire new stock for the shop, gone for a week, probably more. And Julian was running his clinic all the way across town in the South Side. She tried to power through, to brew herself the tea and smile for her customers, but come lunchtime, she had to tap out, forgoing her lunch (just the thought of eating made her want to vomit) and trudging up those steps to kick off her long skirt and soiled smallclothes, to collapse into the bed. 

She must have dozed – she barely heard the heavy footfalls up to the flat, the husky, gentle voice that called up to her, stung through with the chill of Vesuvian winter. “Iris…? Iris, darling?” 

She hummed, hardly more than a groan, as Julian rounded the stairs to the flat, his one visible eye going wide to find her hunched over in bed. He moved, so quickly that Iris couldn’t even think to stop him, as he peeled off one glove and sat beside her in the bed, pressing the back of his cool hand to her forehead, steadfastly checking her temperature. “Darling, are you…?” 

“It’s just my cycle.” She whispered to him, then cringed, as a powerful twinge twisted through her hips, down to the whorls of her knees. “It’s the first day. Why are you here?” 

“I prescribed a patient an oxymel I know you have floating around. I came here to grab it, sneak in a quick lunch with you.” His hand lingered on her forehead, brushing the hair away from her eyes. “You’ve brewed the tea? Can I get you anything?” 

Iris nodded. “It didn’t help – I just need to weather it out. It’ll subside soon. It always does.” 

Julian hummed, wearing a crooked, forlorn smile – then, to Iris’s surprise, he began to unlace his tall boots. 

“What are you – ?” She began, starting to sit up, but Julian shushed her gently, peeling off one boot. 

“Shea and Eugene can handle the clinic. I’ll send word. I’ll run the shop this afternoon.” 

“No.” Iris sat up fully now, wincing at the pain that shot down her thighs. “You don’t need to do that, we’re not hurting for gold, I can handle it –” 

Julian shushed her again, boots shed, pulling off his other glove, his eyepatch. “What kind of husband would I be if I left you alone in this kind of pain, Mrs. Doctor Devorak?” 

The smile that slipped across Iris’s face was soft, soft and rueful. “A normal husband.” She muttered, flopping back into the bed, her hand cradled over her belly. “I’ll be fine, darling, I promise.” 

“I know you will be.” Julian cooed, even as he crawled into the bed next her, wrapping his lithe body around hers, his chest pressed to her back. “But let me help.” 

His hand was warm, inhumanly warm, as it slipped under hers, under the hem of her blouse, smoothing over the plush of her belly. The heat sank into her skin, not so hot to burn, but hot enough to soothe, to slowly unravel the dull, sharp knot of her pain – Iris let herself recede into that heat, focusing only on the slow bloom of relief, the seaslow rhythm of Julian’s breath, that washed over her, let her relax into his arms. 

She didn’t know how long it had been – moments, minutes, peaceful eons – when Julian murmured softly in her ear. “Better?” 

“I’ll never regret teaching you that spell.” Iris mumbled in return, her fingers lacing through his on her stomach. “Your patients must love you, Doctor Devorak.” 

“I have my charms.” His voice was low, sweet and relieved. 

The sheets rustled as Iris turned, looked over her shoulder at him, his mismatched eyes, lovely and wonderful. “Thank you, _dragi_.” She whispered, and in response, he kissed her nose, lips lingering, before settling again behind her, cheek pressed to her neck. 

They lay there for a moment, Iris’s eyes fluttering closed – she was still uncomfortable, even if the pain had dulled, but now, she might be able to sleep. But at her back, Julian shifted slightly, his hips pressing against hers for a moment as he adjusted himself in his pants. He was erect, achingly so – even in that one, utilitarian moment, Iris could feel its heat against the sweet skin of her back. 

“Feels like you might have been thinking about more than lunch, coming back here.” She chuckled, glancing back at him with teasing, if tired, eyes.

He smirked, even as he flushed – on the winter pale of his skin, he blushed so easily, even the lightest of teasing leaving him bright and rosy. “I won’t say I wasn’t thinking about you.” He whispered into her hair, his hand on her stomach drifting now, up, up, to her waist, fingers barely grazing against the soft cotton, only to settle back down onto her stomach. 

“Sorry to leave you wanting.” She let her fingers interlace with his, squeezing again. “In a week’s time, I’ll be all yours.” 

“I don’t mind waiting, if that’s what you prefer.” Murmured Julian, nosing again against her short hair. “I can busy myself with dreams of you.” 

“What I prefer?” Iris snorted. “Surely you don’t want me like this.” 

Julian lifted his head, his brows furrowed. “What do you mean, like this?”

“Bleeding? In pain? Miserable?” Iris muttered. “Hardly very attractive.” 

His brow softened, but with obvious sadness. “Darling, you could never not be attractive to me.” 

“Flatterer.” Iris teased, though she trailed off, uncertain. “But… surely you’re turned off at the thought?” 

Julian sat up fully, now – Iris was shocked at the fire in his eyes, the gentle surety of his hands as he grasped her, guided her onto her stomach, and lifted her blouse over her head, baring her fully to him. She glanced over her shoulder, watching with wide eyes as he carefully straddled her hips, leaned over her, kissed the top of her head as he rubbed her neck, her shoulders, with sure hands.

“The human body is remarkable, but the female body...” He began; his lips nudged against her neck, and she felt the soft rush of air against her skin as he inhaled, took in the smell of her, all while he kneaded her shoulders. “…It’s a marvel. When aroused, it produces its own lubrication. The labia swell with blood, the clitoris engorges. If penetrated during intercourse, the vaginal canal lengthens, stretches, accommodating the partner, toy, what-have-you.” There was no mistaking the smokiness, the certainty that steadied his voice as he moved from her shoulders, now working his palms into her upper back. “The clitoris is the only organ whose only known function is for pleasure; there seems to be no end to the number of orgasms a female body can have.” 

He paused his movements, fingers lingering on Iris’s waist, making her shiver. “Then… if impregnated, the body collects nutrients in the womb, cushions the fetus, protects it while it grows. The uterus stretches, from the size of a fist to the size of a large melon; organs move and shift to accommodate it. When the child is ready to be born, the body knows what to do, to push when it’s time, to produce its own anesthetic. Even after, the body makes what the child needs, allowing the mother to breastfeed, to care for and bond with the child earthside.” 

She jumped, gasped, when his lips brushed against her neck, kissing down her spine. “Your body… is capable of so much, my darling.” He breathed heavily into the small of her back, his hands moving down to her hips, gripping gently. “Your menses indicates that. Someday, you could carry my child, carry Asra’s child, if you choose. If we choose. How could I ever be disgusted by a function of your healthy, exquisite body?”

Iris smiled, warmly, letting her head fall forward onto the pillow, nuzzling her cheek into the pillow she cradled under her arms. “Is that your professional opinion, Doctor?” She teased. 

“Iris.” He murmured. “Please. If you want...” He looked up to her, his auburn eyelashes fluttered, as one hand brushed across the swell of her ass, cupping gently. “I could make myself useful to you. I could...” His voice trailed off, so quietly, so sweet, as he kissed the place between the dimples on her back. 

“Ilya...” Iris whispered, turning over under him. He still dipped down, letting his mouth linger over her belly, looking up at her expectantly, adoring. 

“I want to.” He crooned. “I want this.” 

She inhaled softly, bit her lip. “No oral.” She paused for a long moment, staring into his wavering gray eyes. “Please, _dragi_.” 

“...Okay.” He crooned, even as he mouthed at her belly, hesitant and needful. “Are you… do you need to take out your cup…?” 

“No.” Iris whimpered, as one of his hands swam under her hip, grasping at the swell of her ass. “I just put the towel down under.” 

He hummed, softly, kneading at the softness of her thighs, pulling them gently apart – Iris resisted the urge to squirm away, to hide herself, knowing the inside of her thighs, the flushed skin of her sex, was thick with crimson. 

He saw her uncertainty, the bow of her brows, the way she pressed her lips together with discomfort. “_Draga_...” He murmured, voice was cloudy, cloudy and desperate, even as his gaze roved over her mound, her sex. “You are so beautiful...” 

Iris smiled, softly, softly, even as she blushed – she let her head fall back onto the pillow. “How will you make yourself useful to me, _dragi_?” She teased, her eyes dark, dark and knowing, even as Julian’s thumb traced the tender plush of her labia, swollen and slick. 

“Tell me if it hurts.” He whispered into the skin of her hip, so quietly she barely heard him – and then his thumb slipped over her pleasure, the swollen bud of her clitoris, and she arched, at the strangeness, the unfamiliar slickness sliding across the skin, the pain mingled with the uncanny tinge of pleasure. 

“It’s… _ahh_...” She whimpered, curling into him – his long arm wrapped under her back, drawing her closer, tracing his fingers over her sex, slowly, slowly, the way he knew she liked. “It feels… good?” 

“Good?” In his voice, the slight upwards lilt, questioning, Iris caught the hesitation – she grimaced, even as she sighed, relaxed, in his arms. 

“S-strange...” She panted, the pleasure in her firing, odd and uneven, the uncertain, soft surge of want coursing through her nerves. “But… but good…” 

“Okay.” He whispered to her, his breath hot against the full of her thigh. “Okay, good.” He turned his face to her sex, to his fingers, his thumb working, faster, surer, over the glistening pearl of her pleasure, the rest of his fingers brushing against the place where she was spread for him, painted raw and red. 

She arched, harder, wilder, into Julian’s touch, his arms, his soft grip against the give of her back – he pressed his lips into the crease between her hip and her thigh, desperate, his teeth even grazing, worrying, against the tender skin. A yelp, all her nerves singing sensitive, sensitive and feral, as she bucked against him – her body ached, her legs, her knees, her hips, the space between, and yet she panted, she jolted, she cinched for him, her bliss mounting, mounting. 

“Good...” Julian’s lifted his gaze to her, his head nodding as he watched her with lidded eyes, blown dark like a spent candle. “So good, so good… just relax, Iris…” 

Iris bit her lip, hard, hard, when she finally came, minutes, moments, eons – Julian sighed, a sound as blissful as her own; his talented hands, fingertips bloodied, smoothed over the soft of her legs as they twitched, shook, under his touch. 

“_Draga… moja prekrasna, divlja draga..._” Julian’s voice was quiet, quiet and pained, as Iris reached up to him, her hand threading through his auburn hair, fingers wrapping around the sweet little braid threading down his neck. 

“What, _dragi_?” She murmured, her eyes hazy with release. Julian bit his lip as he settled between her legs, kissing her lips needfully, his hips pressed urgently against her, absolutely no regard for his white shirt, his leather leggings. 

“Can I… can I…?” He was a quivering mess, his eyelashes fluttering, his mismatched eyes glittering, lips trembling as they traced reverently up the slope of her bare chest, the drifts of her breast, the sharp slopes of her collarbones, her elegant neck. “Please…” 

“Only...” Iris breathed, panting, her lips only slightly turning into a smirk as he dipped towards her, hungry, hungry for a reassuring kiss. “Only because you begged so sweetly…” 

With a little groan, his teeth sunk in the plush of his lower lip, with one hand he fumbled at the stays of his pants, unloosing them from his hips, pushing them down, frantically down, around his knees – he was leaking, the tip shimmering, when he pressed himself against the soft, warm, wet of her sex. 

The room flooded with soft lilac light, Julian casting the barrier spell on himself – another spell he had mastered, even in the short time since Iris and Asra had taught him magic. He paused here, their hips and sexes flush, his face hovering over hers. 

“Are you comfortable? Would you rather sit in my lap, or…?” He fussed, but Iris silenced him with a kiss, wrapping her legs around his hips, pulling him closer. 

“This is perfect.” She whispered, smiling, even as an ache, a tremor, shuddered through her. Julian saw her wince, and kissed her again, threading his fingers through hers as he pressed her hands over her head. 

“Let me.” He hummed against her – every touch, his cheek sliding against hers, the drag of the rough linen of his shirt against her swollen breasts, the slow, rutting search of his hips against hers, was still stung through with that strange, twisted ache. When he finally slipped inside her, she gasped – it was too slick, wholly unfamiliar, and yet it rang through her with a little pain, a tightness, that shook her stomach. 

He paused, lips nudging against her temple. “Okay?” He murmured, thumb tracing the length of her mother finger, soothing, soothing. 

She nodded, even giggled, a thin, uncertain sound. “It’s just weird, Ilya. I’m not used to...” She gasped again, the words ebbing away into a quiet, tremulous moan, as he pressed slowly, slowly, all the way into her. 

“I’ve got you, darling.” He murmured, breathless, into her hair. “I’ve got you.” Iris could only bite her lip and whine at the sensation as he drew back, pressed in again, achingly, achingly slow. And yet… with each plunge, each thrust, it grew easier, the pain ebbing away to the familiar mindless pleasure of being taken, of Julian’s movement inside her. 

At first, it was all as slow as the sea’s tides, Julian’s thrusts tentative and careful, so wary of her, the hiss of air against his skin as she inhaled, the sounds she made, whimpers and whines bleeding into quiet cries of pleasure, panting and sighing and groaning.

It wasn’t long before Julian was rutting into her in earnest, his hips slapping wetly into hers in a pace that made her head spin – she could see the red that painted the place where they coupled, the defined creases of his hips, the thick curls of his pubic hair, even the fluttering hem of his white shirt, long, long forgotten. He was sweating, the waves loosed from his braid plastered, slick, against his forehead, his breath hot against her lips, his tongue dancing against hers in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. 

“Iris...” He groaned, arching now, slowing his movements – one hand dragged from hers, his fingertips grazing against the swell of her arm, making her arch into him, pressing her breasts into his chest as he whimpered. “Can I … should I get the linga?” 

“Ah… ah… what?” Iris panted, her legs tightening around Julian’s hips, even as he shifted against her, their skin slipping – Iris tried not to look, to see the splatters that painted both of their stomachs now, the thick slick, both her arousal and her fluids. 

“The...” He was searching now, grasping blindly at the side of the bed, the little drawer in the spindly bedside table. “The linga… Asra’s…” 

“Yes… please, Ilya, yes…” She sat up a little now, to help him, but he pressed her back into the bed with a heated kiss, with fluid rolls of his hips. Iris hiked her legs up higher around him, wrapping around his waist, and she cried out, throwing her head back, as he stroked against the spot, the spot, that blurred her vision with blinding pleasure. 

He chuckled, but the sound was cut short, bleeding into a delicious groan, as he reared up, hands finally finding their mark – the obsidian linga, flecked through with streaks of shimmering silver and opal. With a huff of warm, orange-flecked energy, it stirred, vibrating gently with Julian’s magic in his fingers as he guided it to drag down the slope of Iris’s sternum, around the little swell of her belly, to its mark, slipping between her lips and nudging against her throbbing clit. 

“Ilya!” She whined, her back arching wildly – her pain was all but forgotten, her hips bucking against his as she wildly searched, searched, for more. “Ilya, please...” 

“Greedy...” He teased, lip sunk hard, hard, between teeth – Iris wondered, wildly, if he’d bit hard enough to bleed, his mouth stung through with the same iron-smell-taste that now shrouded them. His free hand found the swell of her thigh, the knob of her knee, and pushed her leg up over his shoulder – his movements were all but desperate now, the linga circling her with each frantic thrust. 

She couldn’t even tease him back, she was so lost, so sunk into her pleasure. The only space she had in her head was for the push-pull-press of his body against hers, of the unbearable bliss vibrating through her most sensitive nerves, for the quiet, almost-pained noises, grunts, whimpers, he made – she was so close, her body was cinching, clenching, clinging, searching for the edge to finally fall over. His eyes caught hers, blown out like a blinking star, dark with desire, desire and sweet desperation, his mouth falling open to cry out her name – and she was gone, tumbling down into the dark, relief like rapture leaving her legs shaking, her sex throbbing. 

And he was right there with her at her edge, back arched taut like a bowstring as he shivered, came, moaning as his wet thrusts slowed. He was panting, flushed, beautiful, when he pulled out of her, his narrow hips, smeared thick with her. 

Even as her vision spun, she couldn’t help but laugh quietly, airlessly, reaching down to trace the little splatters on his trunk, muscles still shaking from orgasm. “We made a mess, didn’t we.” She whispered shakily. 

“It’s worth a little mess.” He was just as breathless as her, even as he brought her hand up to his mouth, kissed the round of her palm, lips lingering. “If it helped.” 

“Oh, it did.” Iris murmured, letting her head fall back on the pillow. Her pain was all but forgotten – rather than that familiar, twisted coil of ache, she felt loose, loose and relaxed, her legs falling open lazily around Julian as he reached again for the bedside, the basin of water, heated with just a touch of his finger, the rags from the little drawer. 

“Good.” Julian’s smile was small, small but sweet, as he focused on cleaning the smears of blood on Iris’s thighs, her mound, the pink-tinged seep of his release from her sex. “I thought it might - oxytocin’s a painkiller. The female body releases it during orgasm, and for a while after. Oxytocin, dopamine, serotonin.” His touch was so gentle as he lifted her legs, cleaning the underside of her thighs, her ass. “Hormones that will help you sleep, too, during the worst of it.” 

Iris hummed – she could already feel her eyelashes fluttering, a heady drowsiness settling over her heavy limbs. Still, she reached for his hand, trying to wrest the rag away from him, to help him clean, but with a chuckle, he pulled it away from her reach. “I’ve got you, _draga_. Rest now. Don’t worry about the shop, or lunch, or the laundry – I’ll take care of it.” 

With a little furrow of her nose, she fell back into the bed. “Just don’t burn the place down, please.” 

Julian chuckled, gray eyes twinkling. “I’ll do my best.” He murmured, then dipped down, pressing a quiet kiss into her lips. “Rest now, _svjetlo moga života. Volim te_.” 

“_Volim te, Ilja. Jako te volim._” She mumbled in return, turning over to curl into herself, sleep whispering to her as Julian gently wrested the soiled towel from under her, replaced it with a fresh one, kissing the little, painful swell of her belly before he alighted from the bed. 

She watched, adoring, as he changed, shedding his bloodied shirt for another, fresh from the morning’s laundry, bleach white, and replaced his eyepatch. He gathered the towel, the rags, his shirt, in the colorful Nuru basket that served as their hamper. The last thing she saw, before she drifted away, was the warm light in her sweet husband’s eyes, the quiet love that turned his crooked smile as he looked back at her over his shoulder, pausing for only a moment, before he swept down the stairs to the shop, leaving Iris to her dreamless peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: This was written by my uterus, and my rioting uterus alone, so don't @ me. 
> 
> I did my best to keep the medical descriptions of periods as gender neutral as possible, but please be gentle with me if I effed it up or you see something. As always, I'm open to your feedback.


	16. The Sunrise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Beach House - Lazuli**
> 
> _CW: No content warnings_
> 
> This chapter owes a lot to [this work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18131654/chapters/42869108) by the inimitable [Aria-i-Adagio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_i_Adagio/pseuds/Aria_i_Adagio).
> 
> <3 u, Ari.

This early in the morning, in the quiet-quiet before dawn where the shadows were slippery and gray, the summer palace was still. Lazuli liked to imagine the white stone walls that gleamed so orangebright at sunset now breathed like the sleeping, steady and gentle and rhythmic, expanding and contracting softly under her little fingers as she placed her palms on the smooth marble. 

Like most mornings, she woke before the sun, slipping out of bed to explore while her brothers wasted the witching hour. But they were old, 8 and 10, and boring, teasing her even as they spoiled her, summoning flowers to weave in her long blonde hair, stealing treats from the palace kitchens for her, calling her their pet name for her, Lilu, that made her wrinkle her nose and pout. 

Most mornings, she would wander and play and explore, finding the forgotten corners of the big house, flipping through the books and books and books in the family library, picking out the words she knew, sounding out the words she didn’t, making a note to ask Juli later if it was right. He was so good with words, with languages, and he didn’t laugh when she pronounced the words wrong, not like her brothers, who teased and teased, not like Azza, who chuckled and kissed her forehead, not like Mama, who did her best not to laugh, but the corners of her mouth turned and her eyes twinkled just like when she and Lazuli shared a secret. 

Most mornings, she left her parents alone; she’d deduced that being an adult was exhausting, with how late they slept. Juli was sometimes up when she was, and then he would make her breakfast, sing with her, tell her stories, ask her questions, while plodding around the big kitchen in his thick red robe, drinking black coffee. 

Lazuli liked the scent of it, rich and strange and now like morning, but when Juli had offered her a sip of it, like a whisper, long finger over his lips, his mismatched eyes sparkling, it tasted dark and painful, making Lazuli crunch up her nose and stick out her tongue. Even then, he didn’t laugh at her, just winking, ruffling her hair, bowing to kiss Mama who’d shuffled, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen, her own sleeping robe hanging off her bare shoulders. 

But this morning, there was no time for wandering, for mooniness – Lazuli was on a mission. She looked through the marble arches that faced east, the sea air smelling like clean, like good, as she carefully measured the green and purple that brushed through the ungraying light that separated the sky and the sea. It wouldn’t be long now. She clutched her stuffed monkey, Nila, threadbare ato her chest and hurried down the long corridor, her little footfalls echoing softly, like rain. 

After two days of travel, Lazuli could tell her parents were tired-tired as they kissed her goodnight, the shadows under Juli’s eyes dark, Azza running his hands distractedly through his long-long hair, looking just like Bapa Salim, Mama rubbing her eyes as she yawned, before all three of them disappeared behind the door down the corridor. Lazuli spent the rest of the night playing games and reading with Ama Aisha and Bapa Salim, her brothers, and her cousins, though Saoirse and Aida dropped almost immediately into sleep, curled up on one of the sofas, their downy, honey-blonde hair haloed under their chubby, tawny cheeks. Aunties Pasha and Nadi had even stayed up with them for a little while, before they too, retired, the twins each curled over a shoulder as they disappeared down the hall.

When she reached the door at the end of the corridor, she furrowed her eyebrows in consternation. She knew without trying it that it was locked; it radiated a gentle blocking energy. The door was not a Vesuvian door, latches that unpinned sliding doors on their tracks, but something else entirely: long, lacy metal curling over wood the color of Azza, tapering to a hinge at the doorframe, an ornate handle instead of a latch. 

She chewed her lip for a moment, her gray eyes sparkling as her blonde brows furrowed; then she let her little hand hover over the doorhandle, her eyes fluttering closed. She imagined Azza’s words in her ear, the warmth of his magic at her back as he held his hand up behind hers. “Magic is willpower, Lazuli.” He’d told her, voice low and warm and nice. “If you want the door to open, imagine it opening. Imagine the sound it’ll make, how happy you’ll feel stepping through it. Imagine what’s on the other side that you’re trying to get to.” When the door to the playroom unclicked open with a surprised flash of blue, Azza cooed at her in Nuru, kissed her forehead, tickled her until she screamed.

And that was what Lazuli imagined; she imagined the laughter that was always under her Azza’s voice, in the kind wrinkles that lined his eyes when he smiled; she imagined sitting in Juli’s lap, him reading to her, the way he acted out all the parts, changed his voice, ad-libbed lines until she begged him to read the story as it was; she imagined nuzzling her head into her mother’s neck, the familiar flood of her wonder-magic as she cradled Lazuli in her arms, sang her to sleep. 

There was a gentle, soft-soft whisper of magic, hardly a giggle, and the handle rolled down slowly; the heavy door swung open, and, with a smile of wicked triumph, Lazuli slipped into her parent’s room. 

It was massive, the same marble columns opening to a balcony that descended to the beach, the gauzy curtains shivering in the warm breeze like breaths. There was a huge bathing pool that went out to the balcony, waterfalling over the edge into the sea. The furniture was the same beautiful, gleaming wood that decorated the other dazzling rooms of the palace. And there was a big bed, almost the size of the big-big bed at home, dressed in snow white sheets and linens, most discarded onto the marble tiled floor in the night. 

This was where Lazuli found her parents, all three of them coiled together like kittens sleeping in a pile. Juli was on his back, one leg splayed out to the side, almost as if it had fallen open that way, one arm flung back over his head. Nestled into his shoulder was Mama’s head, Juli’s cheek nuzzled in her short blonde hair, her hand curled over his broad chest, one hip hitched up and slung over his. Azza laid behind her, his hand wrapped around her waist, his lips pressed to her neck, his leg up behind hers, wrapped around Juli’s. His head rested on Juli’s other arm, which wrapped protectively around Azza’s shoulders, his long-long fingers draped lazily against the dip of Azza’s arm. 

Lazuli hesitated; she had seen her parents asleep before, their limbs tangled in the big-big bed, and she hadn’t even thought twice about crawling into bed with them, coiling up against Juli’s side, laying her head on Azza’s chest, kissing her Mama’s cheek. But this was different, somehow, in a way Lazuli couldn’t quite name. They weren’t wearing any clothes – that wasn’t terribly uncommon, especially for the mornings – but the way they were intertwined, the way they seemed to breathe in tandem, the way the room even seemed to feel, sultry and heady and richly-scented like the incense Azza lit sometimes, made her feel like she wasn’t supposed to be there. 

Still, with a furtive glance at the windows, she approached on her tiptoes, nearly silent, hopping up into the high bed with a little push of her magic under her feet. She landed softly against the mussed sheets at the foot of the bed and crawled up beside Juli, leaning very, very carefully over him to whisper in Mama’s ear. “Mama… psst, mama…” 

She had hoped to only wake her mother, to leave Juli and Azza soundly sleeping, but no such luck. Something cool and scaly smoothed over her ankle, and she started, jerking her head backwards to see; she knocked her forehead with a hard thwack against Juli’s jaw, and his unburdened hand shot up, only to find her pajamaed back as he grimaced with sharp pain. 

“_Moj mali dragulj._” He murmured, palm flattening against her little back, rubbing gently. “Are you okay?” Even as his lashes fluttered sleepily, he looked concerned, his brow furrowed and lips downturned. “That was quite a knock...” 

“I’m sorry, Juli, I felt...” She turned back now, clutching her crown as it throbbed; it was Faust, coiling lazily around Lazuli’s leg, tongue flickering curiously. 

_Hatchling…? Hurt?_

“I’m okay, Faust.” She assured her Azza’s familiar; from the foot of the bed, Vasalisa chuffed, her bright green eyes flicking to Lazuli. Malak, asleep in the space between Vasalisa’s shoulderblades, as gray around the edges as her Juli, barely stirred even as Mama let out a soft sigh, the puff of air tickling Lazuli’s hand on her chest. 

“’Zuli?” She murmured softly, eyes focusing as her hand on Juli’s chest smoothed up to her daughter’s cheek. “Little light, how did you...”

Behind her, Azza chuckled and sat up on his elbow, the sheets drifting down his waist to his hips. “I might have taught her how to unlock doors.” 

Mama groaned, her head falling softly back onto Juli’s shoulder, the fingers of Juli’s scarred hand drifting, gentle and skilled, over Lazuli’s scalp, searching worriedly for any bumps. “Damn it, Asra... now I have to enchant all the locks in the house...” 

Asra’s eyes-like-the-first-violets-in-spring twinkled as they met Lazuli’s; he winked, his lips curling. “She would have figured it out if I taught her or not.” 

“You’re right, my heart.” Mama hummed quietly, her eyes warm and strange as she looked over her daughter. “Just last week she figured out how to boil water to make tea.” She sighed softly, a smile dancing across her lips. “What are we going to do with you, little light?” 

“Mama...” Lazuli whined softly, taking her Mama’s hand and tugging gently. “We’re going to miss it!”

“Miss what, _dragulj_?” Juli murmured, satisfied that she was unharmed, now cinching up to kiss her cheek, his hand still on her little back. 

“The sunrise!” Lazuli huffed, frustratedly clutching Nila to her chest. “Mama’s going to miss it!” 

Mama’s eyes scrunched together, making the little crow’s feet that lined them even more pronounced. “The sunrise…?” 

Lazuli glanced up at the horizon through the vaulted arches; her lip was quivering as the brushstrokes lengthened, growing warmer, warmer, orange-red and gold and the pink of wild roses. She bounced a little on the bed as she whined. “The sunrise, Mama, you said...” 

Iris’s eyes flew open. “Oh, Lazuli...” She sat up gently, Azza murmuring quietly as he drifted over and snuggled closer to Juli, his stout amber fingers threading through wild red hair streaked with shimmery silver. Lazuli knew that Juli was the oldest of her parents, even if he acted the most like a kid; he was nearing 50, almost as old as Ama Aisha and Bapa Salim. Azza was older than Mama, closer to Juli’s age, but he looked younger even than Mama; they both had the same lines around their eyes, and dimples, the same dimples as Lazuli. She had two on one side just like Mama’s, and just one on the other, like one forgot to latch on and burrow in when she was in Mama’s womb. 

With a flick of her wrist, Mama summoned a white, shiny robe from the wardrobe across the room, pressed against the textured, stuccoed wall. Lazuli watched as she shrugged the robe over her shoulders, one hand running through her short hair, the gentle waves that tickled the nape of her neck, as she covered her breasts, her soft tummy, the patch of dark hair over the place where her legs met. She didn’t have a thing like Juli and Azza did, like Lija and Howl did, just delicate lines where the skin folded and swirled, like Lazuli’s. 

Lazuli knew that she had half-lived in Mama’s womb for a long, long time, nothing more than a wish, before Azza and Juli put the rest of her in Mama; then she grew big and strong there, Mama protecting her until she was ready to come earthside. Someday Lazuli could protect a baby, too, if she wanted, but she wasn’t sure yet if she wanted that. All the babies she met were really noisy. 

Mama’s robe tied, her blonde hair tamed a little, she held a hand out to Lazuli, smiling beautifully; Lazuli took it and Mama magicked her daughter down to the floor as she stood. Together they walked to the balcony as Azza and Juli snuggled closer together, their arms and legs twining together. 

Mama stooped and gathered Lazuli in her arms, settling her against her hip before kissing her soft cheek. “I’m surprised you heard me, little love.” She murmured. “I thought you were asleep.” 

Lazuli recalled the memory, still sharp in her ear; her head on Mama’s lap in the jostling carriage, the air suddenly smelling salty again, like sea. Juli was playing a game with Lija and Howl, both of them clambering over his lap to see out the window, calling out the names of the birds and the plants that careened by. Azza was next to Mama, and Mama had her head on his shoulder; they were murmuring to each other, so soft-soft that Lazuli almost didn’t hear them. 

“There’s no light pollution there, not like the city.” Asra had muttered, his lips on Mama’s ear. “We can go see the stars.” He kissed her cheek, a little longer than he would ever kiss Lazuli’s. “All of them, Iris.” 

Mama took a deep, deep breath, then let it all out, the sound contented, soft. “I’d like that.” She whispered, leaning to kiss Azza fully; for a moment, it was all silent. “The sunrises will be glorious there, too. I’d like Lazuli to see it. All three of them to see it.” She paused. “I want to see it too. It’s been too long.” 

Asra smiled just a little, as if remembering a secret. “I remember our first sunrise in the summer palace.” He crooned, and Mama smacked him on the shoulder, even as she smirked. 

Lazuli came back to Mama, focusing on her warm hand in her long, soft hair, curling gently at the ends, reaching just beyond her shoulderblades. “I didn’t want you to miss it.” Lazuli murmured against her Mama’s neck, breathing in the scent of her, so familiar, flowers, irises and roses and lilies, but dark, too, just like Mama’s magic. It felt so normal to Lazuli, like her own heartbeat, but she knew it was only a part of Mama’s magic; when Mama unleashed all of it, it flooded her like anger, and it scared Lazuli. 

One time, they had been at dinner with a visiting noble from a far-away land, a man with skin so papyrus-light that Lazuli could see the blue-green veins like wax crayon drawings that threaded through his neck, his hands. He was mean, sneering at Lazuli when she offered him a flower from the garden, turning away from Lija when he tried to show him a little magic, ignoring Howl’s offer to play the piano and sing for them. 

Over the course of dinner, he insulted Aunt Nadi and Aunt Pasha, insulted Mama, then insulted Azza and Juli, calling them all names. Mama lost her temper, her magic flaring for only a moment; her eyes went white-white, bright white, her rainbow magic arcing from her hands as she stood and slammed them into the mahogany table, splitting it all the way to the man’s plate, shattering the fine china. Lazuli and Howl cried as the man gathered his things, his people, and fled; even solemn, stoic Lija trembled as Mama, her eyes simmering back to her normal night-sky blue, gathered all three of them in her soft, warm arms and sang to them until they settled. 

“You’re so thoughtful, Lazuli.” Mama crooned, the lengths of light now reaching them, golden-orange and soft as the sun threatened to peek over the horizon, making Mama’s face glow with wonder. “So sweet.” 

Lazuli nuzzled a little further into Mama’s neck. “Why did you go to bed early last night, Mama?” She asked quietly. 

Mama hummed softly, her gaze fluttering out over the softly rolling sea. “Asra, Juli and I were tired. And we wanted to spend some time together, just the three of us.” 

Lazuli considered this for a moment, her white brows furrowed. “Were you making a new baby?” 

Mama startled, her eyes wide as she turned towards Lazuli; then she laughed, throwing her head back, her neck creamy-long. Lazuli had heard both Azza and Juli say that Mama was more than she used to be, her thick thicker, her soft softer, but Lazuli thought Mama’s neck looked so thin and fragile still; but she hadn’t known Mama before, before herself. “Who told you that, little light?” 

Lazuli shook her head. “No one. I read about it in a book.” 

Mama snorted softly. “I should have known. No, we didn’t make a new baby.” She nuzzled her nose into Lazuli’s cheek. “You’re my last baby, Lazuli.” 

Lazuli was silent for a moment. “Who’s my father, Mama?” She asked. 

Mama’s eyes flitted towards her for a moment; Lazuli knew that look. It was Mama’s Oracle look, the look she gave the people who came to her with questions, who didn’t like what the Arcana said when Mama drew the cards for them. “Asra and Juli are your fathers, Lazuli. You know this.” 

Lazuli’s brows furrowed a little deeper. “The book said it’s only one. One mother, one father.” She bit her lip. “Lija said the same thing. That Juli is his father. That Azza is Howl’s. I can only have one, too.”

Mama sighed heavily, shifting Lazuli up on her hip. “Biologically, that’s true. But tell me, who braids your hair in the morning?” 

Lazuli didn’t hesitate. “Azza.” 

Mama smiled. “And who takes you to school in the mornings on his way to work?” 

“Juli.” 

“Who teaches you magic, is patient even when it takes you time to get a spell right?” 

“Azza.” 

“And who plays his vielle for you when you can’t sleep because it makes you feel safe?” 

“Juli.” 

“Who kisses your face and tells you you’re beautiful and smart and kind, and that they love you?” 

“Azza and Juli.” 

Mama smiled. “Those are all things fathers do, Lazuli. You’re lucky. Most kids only have one. You have two.” 

The sun interrupted their talk; it split over Mama’s face, red and orange and gold and beautiful. They turned towards the east, looking out over the sea as the sun shivered in the cold air, against the gray stark of the sea, slow-slow to rise, the colors swirling and stretching and deep. Lazuli couldn’t help but gasp a little, her little breath huffing against her Mama’s neck; she felt Mama’s heart quicken under her fingers as she wrapped her chubby arms around her shoulders. 

They were silent for a long, long time, Lazuli nuzzled into Mama’s neck, her lips quivering as the sky exploded into watercolors, startling them into quiet. 

Finally, after a long time, Mama spoke again, kissing the top of Lazuli’s head gently. “Juli and Asra both love you very much.” She whispered. “They love you just as much as they love Elijah and Howl. It doesn’t matter to them who made you, and it doesn’t matter to me.” Her eyes were soft, her smile a little sad. “We’re both very lucky, you and I.” 

Lazuli furrowed her eyebrows; she didn’t quite understand, but she didn’t even know how to ask the question that formed on her lips, swirling through the back of her mind like an eddy drawing up silt from the bottom of a stream. She just hugged her Mama closer, watching the sun rise until it was too bright to stare at any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> I totally meant to post this on Mother's day. To all the mamas and the papas and the parents out there, this one's for you, even if it's a week late.


	17. The Sea Urchin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Jhené Aiko – Blue Dream // Jhené Aiko, Dr Chill – Surrender**
> 
> _CW: discussions and brief depictions of pregnancy, brief depictions of childbirth, unsafe sex, brief depictions of vomiting, brief depictions of violence_
> 
> This installment was lovingly beta'ed by [ Aria_I_Adagio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_i_Adagio/pseuds/Aria_i_Adagio).

Iris was annoyed. Annoyed, and motion-sick.

“Ilya.” She managed a groan, hazarded one eye open. “Can we _please_ open the window?”

And Julian looked so tortured, tortured and adorable, the way he worried his lower lip, chapped even in the thickest heat of summer: a heat as thick and wild and sensual as the heat that crept up Iris’s neck, even as her head spun and her stomach clenched. The carriage lurched over a rut in the road; she braced herself just in time so her forehead didn’t knock against his knee, coiled as she was in his lap, like a cat.

His plan - his heartsick, romantic plan with a destination that Julian wouldn’t reveal, no matter how Iris plied him with promises, teasing and tickles and promises - had been ruined by a factor he’d not considered: her getting motion-sick, motion-sick and miserable on an hours-long carriage ride. He fussed over her, his long fingers smoothing through her hair, soft on the small of her back, the small circles that soothed her; he kept peering out of the window every few minutes, the sun peeking through like a halo.

“We’re almost there, darling.” He murmured as the curtains fluttered shut again, drowning them in darkness before the little magic lantern softened their sight, casting the carriage cabin in its orange glow.

“You said that an hour ago.” Iris winced even as she half sat up, as his hand on her shoulder tightened, uncertainly.

“I promise, darling...” His eyes dilated a little in the dark, roving over her. “We’ll be there soon. I’m sorry.”

Iris just nuzzled her cheek into his shoulder. “I appreciate the sentiment, nonetheless.”

“I know, _draga_.” Julian’s voice was distant, distracted – he was peeking out of the curtains again. “Ah – ”

He grinned wide as he turned back to Iris, the sun still caught in his eyes. “Careful, let your eyes adjust...” His hand slunk down her arm, to her hand, fingers intertwining with hers, as he slowly pulled the curtains open.

Iris winced at the bright of the light, shock-sharp in her tired eyes, but the painful fog receded, and she gasped. The sea glittered like a faceted sapphire in the sun, framed in the fragmented-rush of the carriage, the scrub-palms and cedarsprigs whizzing by them at a dizzying rate, their greens making the blues deeper, deeper and wilder.

“Ilya…?” She breathed, turning back to him – he was still grinning like a kid.

“The southern seas.” His voice was soft, soft and low, in her ear. “This time of the year, they're as warm as the breasts of a Goddess.”

“You… are you –” Iris’s breath caught in her throat, suddenly dry and tight, overwhelmed.

“We’re still far from Nevivon.” Julian read her mind, and his hand tightened in hers. “But we’re not even an hour away from the Summer Palace. We’ll meet Nadia and the rest in three day’s time. In the meantime...”

Iris hardly noticed the carriage had slowed, the horses huffing loudly. And then the door opened, and Julian’s strong hand helped her down into the sandy soil, soft under her feet. A vast beach, low tide now, less than a hundred yards from the road. And, after the palm-brush receded to sand – a saltbleached A-frame house, the only man-made structure in sight.

Julian was already unloading Iris’s trunk and his bags as Iris stared dumbly at the beach, the afternoon sun glinting off the waves as they rolled gently against the shore. “Ilya… how…?”

Julian chuckled and smacked the back of the carriage, strapping his bags to his back and lifting Iris’s trunk with two hands. “She belongs to one of the other doctors. Old family home, been sitting unoccupied for too long. I told him we’d stop in on our way to the summer palace, clean her up a bit for a weekend of free lodging.”

Iris couldn’t help but snort as the carriage rumbled away, untying one of Julian’s bags from his shoulder and slinging it over her own. “So you offered my cleaning services, did you?”

Julian hummed, leaning into her for a quick kiss to her temple. “I’ll do the cleaning, _draga_, if it means you can relax, finally.”

“I’ll hold you to it, y’know.” Iris teased, her headache suddenly abating, like white cotton lightening in the sun. They practically jogged down the little dune from the road, stumbling onto the front stoop. Iris was shocked at how pristine it looked for being unoccupied: wooden chairs painted sea-blue under a little veranda, seapeony bushes dotting the perimeter, desert pansy spilling out of windowboxes. 

It was tiny inside past the little yellow door. The deep A-frame was deceiving, made it look so much bigger than it was – a little kitchenette, barely room for a stove and a sink, a runebox, framed by a little counter with two rickety-looking barstools. A round table with more rickety chairs, the wood warm and worn. A sitting area with a faded floral couch, rattan chairs, a braided Nuru rug, and then –

Iris gasped, crossed the floor in four bounding strides to throw open the two wide Franc doors, practically the width of the bungalow. A sandy deck, more rattan chairs, two wide steps down to the beach, but Iris was staring at the sea: the undulating cerulean-cobalt-turquoise of the Sea of Persephia. The sea of her home - so far north from Vesuvia the seasons were flipped - was slate-gray, chilly, rocky, the waves breaking into misty sprays even on the calmest days. Even at the height of summer, the Yearning Sea was the color of bluebells, bright and deep, but nothing, nothing like –

“You’ll catch duneflies, your mouth gaping like that.” Julian called to her, from above – she spun around, only to see him leaning on both elbows over the balustrade of a small deck from the second floor. He smirked, even as his eyes warmed. “You act like you’ve never seen the ocean before.”

“The Yearning Sea doesn’t look like this.”

“I’ve sailed all around the world.” He mused in response. “There’s no view quite like the Persephia.”

“You mean, like home.” It was Iris who smiled now, ducking into the house, quickly locating and scaling the narrow stairs. The ceilings in the loft were high, with exposed beams stained the color of sunset, but the room itself was barely long and wide enough for a bed, a chest of drawers, and a tiny washroom. Iris tossed the bags on top of her trunk and joined Julian on the little balcony, where a tiny loveseat of lacquered bamboo barely left room to stand. Yet, it was perfect.

Julian laughed and wrapped his arm around her as she joined him at the balcony, nuzzled into the crook of his arm. “Nevivon isn’t far from here, right?” Iris asked, still staring, starry-eyed, at the sea.

Julian’s smile shrank a little, and for a moment, just a moment, Iris saw his brow furrow. “It’s on the other side of the sea, about a three and a half day’s ride from here. It’s like Vesuvia, connects two larger Seas through an inlet. The Salty Sea is on the other side.” He pursed his lips, took a soft breath, like he was going to say something more, but his shoulders bowed as he exhaled, a wistful, mournful sigh.

“When was the last time you went back?” Iris asked, after a moment, her hand winding up his back, fingernails scratching against the nape of his neck, the way she knew he liked, the way she knew soothed him. He relaxed, visibly, letting his eyelashes flutter closed.

“Nine years.” He murmured. “A whole lifetime... and the blink of an eye. I don’t even know if the house by the sea is still standing. If… if there’s anything left for me there.”

“It’s where you grew up. Where your family is.” Iris whispered, her forehead pressed into his shoulder now. “There will always be something there for you.”

Julian sighed again, hardly audible over the crush of the sea, and kissed Iris’s hair before turning away, taking the two dancing steps to the foot of bed, fiddling with his bags. “I don’t know about you, but I could sure use a dip in the water. I feel like I’m cooking in this heat.”

Iris closed her eyes, breathed in seven counts, out seven counts. A deflection. She let it go, let a little smirk pull at the corners of her mouth. “I didn’t pack a swimsuit. I thought we were going to the summer palace.”

Julian turned back to her, eyes flashing with knowing mischief. “You think Nadi didn’t arm you to the teeth for this trip? I had to get her permission, after all.”

Iris rolled her eyes, but still, she stooped to her trunk, worked the buckles open with her magic. Sure enough, the clothes she packed last night were gone, replaced with pastel sundresses patterned with summer blooms, delicate lace blouses and breezy skirts, slippery kimonos. And, at the top, a swimming costume, tropical fruits embroidered on a jersey monotanga, piped with graphic black, paired with a gauzy black swimming robe. It was all crowned with a saucy note scented of jasmine - _“Enjoy your honeymoon, Iris.”_

Iris snorted and smiled, lifting the swimsuit out of the trunk, holding it up in front of her – she glanced back coyly at Julian, hoping to catch his eye, but his back was turned to her. He was stepping into his own swimsuit, breathable shorts of patterned jersey, the same suggestive fruits as hers: luscious papaya, juicy guava, long, curved bananas. The lean muscles of his back, taut from years of physical work, flexed as he shimmied the shorts up his slim hips, hugging the firmness of his thighs. He patted his hips once, adorably awkward, and then stretched sinuously, shoulders, arms, back, all churning in one liquid movement as his chin dropped, his face in gorgeous profile – Iris surged, a tightness and a heat spinning through her just as Julian looked back at her and broke into a wide, wide smile.

“Caught you staring, darling?” He teased, eyes warm as he turned to her, but she averted her eyes, back to the swimsuit, blushing fiercely.

Julian chuckled, stooped to kiss her cheek. “I’ll leave you to freshen up, then. See you on the beach.”

Iris’s hands were trembling just a little as Julian left her, thudding softly down the stairs, as she divested herself of her clothes. She had seen him naked so many times – slept with him so many times, slept _next_ to him so many times – she was absolutely no stranger to his body. And yet there were moments like this, like she was seeing him again for the first time: when he absolutely took her breath away with how handsome he was, the fluid grace of his movements, the stretched, lean muscles of his trunk, his arms, his legs, his neck…

She smoothed her palms over her hips, straightening the fabric of the tanga. Her entire back was bare, save for one black strap around her ribs, another around the nape of her neck – the swimming robe hid nothing, only draped her in inky dusk. She could feel her pulse quickening under her wrists, in her throat, as she turned to the mirror on the wall. How strange – she looked scared, wide-eyed and flushed, as she fiddled with her hair, undoing the braid that circled her brow, letting it fall over her shoulder, her breast. She felt that familiar heat slip over her, liquid and simmering, and she sank into it, welcoming, welcoming, breathing deeply, eyes fluttering closed. How strange. _How strange._

Then she was floating down the stairs on sure feet, uncertainty all but forgotten. She found Julian on the beach; he’d hauled the two rattan chairs down closer to the surf and found two towels to drape over the backs of the chairs. There was even a basket between the chairs – the food for their trip, she’d assumed when they packed the carriage – now divulged of most of its contents, tucked safely away in the runebox, save for two sandwiches and a bottle of rosé, already uncorked.

Julian stood with his back to her, slathering sunsalve on those shoulders, those arms – Iris felt that tight little sweetness again, the swell in her heart, the warmth between her legs. He only turned when she was almost close enough to touch his back, to smooth in a bit of the salve not quite worked into his skin; his eyes went wide with a soft inhale, and Iris knew – he felt the same, uncanny, sundrenched desire as she did.

“You’re stunning, _draga_.” He crooned, holding out a hand for her – she did a little turn for him, relished the soft hum as he saw her mostly bare back. “And look; we match.”

“Nadi thinks of everything.”

“Truly.” He handed her the sunsalve. “She knows I blister like a roast tomato in the sun. Could you…?”

“I’ve got you.” Iris coated her fingers in the salve as he turned, his broad, muscled back to her – she found her lip between her teeth as she worked the balm into his skin, the back of his neck, then down his spine, massaging it with sure fingers into pale skin: gentle, circular motions, the same, the same motions he touched her with –

They traded, Iris stripping off her robe, and he worked the salve into her skin: the soft undersides of her arms, the sweetness of her back, the give of her sides. Iris trembled at his touch, suddenly slowing, careful – she could practically feel his eyes boring into her as his palms smoothed up and under the one strap that held her swimming costume together, around her ribs, just nudging the fullness of her breasts before snaking down her waist. And then it was done, a quick, too-chaste kiss to her neck before he turned his back to her, fussing with his swimsuit, taking a long, long pull from the wine.

Iris ignored him when he offered the bottle to her – instead, she wandered to the shoreline, stepping into the surf so the waves lapped over her feet. She cried out, startled, at how cold the water was; it looked so warm and inviting. Behind her, she heard Julian chuckle.

“She’s never quite as warm as she looks, the Persephia.” He teased, even as he stepped into the water beside her, shuddering.

“Just like a woman.” Iris laughed - with a wild cry she spun, fell, shoulders first, into the cold, cold, surf.

A splash, more chilly water spraying over her, and Julian’s arms were wrapped around her waist, pulling her upright. She was laughing, he was laughing, his hair was plastered to his forehead, his temples, as he lifted her up to him and kissed her - long, soft, lingering. And then they were falling together into the surf, his smile wicked, the salt licking against them, stinging and sweet.

They played together in that bracing water – they splashed and shrieked, tackling each other into the warmcold. They swam out as far as their legs could carry them, their fingers intertwined as they let the surf buoy them back towards the shore. Julian showed her how to float on her stomach and see the colorful saltreefs below them, the fish that flitted in and out of the lake-coral and the seaweed.

They floated together into the surf until they were pruned all over, and then they swam back to shore, where the wine and the warm chairs were waiting for them. They drank, holding hands, ate their late lunch, letting the sun steal the damp from their skin. And then, they splashed together into the water again, holding hands, floating in the waves, holding hands, Julian picking her up and tossing her into the surf, the afternoon echoing with their laughter.

When Iris was tired, Julian took her back to the shore and left her to lounge in the sun with the wine and the food while he bobbed in the surf, happy as a clam tossed back into the sea. He brought her back treasures, telling her of the divers who found pearls around the cliffs that dotted Nevivon, who trained their whole lives to dive for that elusive treasure. A conch shell the size of two of her stacked fists, a sand dollar, a piece of vibrant coral – and finally, the home of a sea urchin, perfectly round, like a globe of the earthside realm, but several of them, fused together perfectly, balance, balance.

Iris took these treasures back to the bungalow, washed them in the sinkbasin, displayed them in the center of the dining table. On the little bookshelf by the door she found a well-loved romance novel, passages underlined and pages dog-eared; she stretched and lounged in her chair, absorbed, until Julian clambered out of the ocean, his teeth chattering and his skin goosebumped.

The afternoon wore on and the sun’s beams lengthened, and Iris read the worst, most lurid passages out loud to Julian, barely able to keep a straight face; Julian found an ancient fishing rod with a tangled line in the beachhouse, rolled a cannabis joint that he and Iris passed back and forth while he fastidiously untangled the line. Iris watched, enchanted, as his deft fingers worked, the muscles never forgetting what the mind had long abandoned, helping his father untangle their fishing lines after long days out at sea. Then, when the knot was unloosed, Julian cast it out into the sea with a fluid, practiced motion, like a wave himself, settling easily into the chair beside Iris, hoping to catch their dinner.

But even Julian’s skill couldn’t make the fish bite – after catching nothing but small fry with barely a bite of flesh on them, tossing them back into the ocean with tender hum, the air was growing chillier, the sky softer, grayer. They retreated to the beach house, both of them starving.

Julian, flushed from the sun and, perhaps, from a touch of embarrassment, opened the small runebox, brow furrowed. “I won’t lie, the only thing I can really cook without burning is whole fish.”

Iris leaned over him, gaze rolling over usual runebox fare – preserves, olives, canned vegetables, the cheeses and breads from the trip, but also, some groceries that Julian had somehow smuggled in with them – tender sweetgreens and ripe tomatoes, some summer stonefruit, dark cherries and plums so soft they looked ready to burst, butter, cream, milk, even six pristine eggs. And, in the corner – the bait, tiny live whitebait, most no longer than Iris’s thumb, staring at her with their wide silver eyes.

“I have an idea.” Iris purred.

She cranked the little gas stove, oiled the cast-iron pan hanging on the wall, and tossed in a handful of the bait into the screaming heat, pulling them out less than a minute later. She fried the bait in batches while she put a salted pot of water to boil, softening the ancient pasta she found in the pantry. Sweetgreens swirled in butter with a little garlic, a little cream, then tossed in the pasta, topped with briny farm cheese and the fried whitebait.

Julian watched Iris work with a little smile, uncorking another bottle of wine, a dry, soft white. “My mother used to make something like that when the fish wouldn’t bite.” He mused, leaning over the counter, resting his weight on his elbows. “A recipe from Meath.”

“I forget your mother was from Meath.” Iris said, handing Julian his plate. “My mum used to make this, too. Meath’s only a stone’s throw from Albyon, y’know. On clear days, my dad said you could see the island from the tallest of the Ceredigons.” She smiled a little at the memory.

“And I bet you believed him.” Julian cooed, swirling the pasta around on his fork.

“Like a fool.” Iris replied. “I hope it measures up to your mum’s.”

Julian let out a barking laugh, just as he raised the fork to his mouth. “My mother was many things, but a cook she was not.” He took that first bite with a satisfied hum, a sound that Iris felt rather than heard. “She would swat me with a wooden spoon for saying this, but she couldn’t hold a candle to you.”

They ate mostly in silence on the couch, curled into each other, watching the waves through the open Franc doors; when dinner was devoured, Julian cleared the dishes, went to clean up the tiny kitchen, already chaotic from Iris’ cooking. She wandered outside into the surf, relishing the night air, dipping her toes into the chilly tides; she retreated only when she was too cold to stand it anymore, back to the couch and found her novel again, already half way through it now. She read a few more passages out loud, the beach house echoing with Julian’s raucous, impossible laughter.

*******

She must have dozed – it was a pair of cool hands, thumbs tenderly tracing the tops of her feet as they were lifted into a lap, that wrested her gently back into wakefulness.

“You would’ve gotten a good smack from my mother’s spoon for tracking this much sand inside.” Julian murmured, his touch growing firmer now as he massaged his palms against the ball of her feet. “Gods forbid you got the bedlinens dirty.”

Iris snorted softly, then purred, melted, as Julian ran his thumb expertly against her arch, all tightness and soreness melting away like magic. “A wooden spoon seems like the only requirement to be a Nevinese mother.”

Julian smiled, sadly, lifted the foot to his mouth gently, kissed the pad of her big toe, and switched to the other. “It was certainly the one she took to the most.”

Iris furrowed her brows with concern, and the sound Julian made in response that was half mortification, half-stumbling. “Ah, erm-that’s to say… she was a gentle woman, though she had her temper – all Gaulic women do. It was Nevivon she had trouble adjusting to.”

Iris hummed, catching his gaze – his gray eyes were far away. “She had you young, right?”

Julian nodded softly. “A little younger than you.” He was massaging her calves now; the grains of sand and salt that still clung to her scraped pleasantly, softening away the rough skin. “She was to go to university, in Albyon, actually. She wanted to be a doctor. But then she fell in love with my father, got pregnant with me.”

Iris smiled sadly. “The path not taken.”

Julian nodded, eyes flitting up to hers; Iris’s heart broke at the sorrow that hid behind them, long buried. It was the quiet sorrow that only the children of unhappy parents absorb, as slow and unknowable as lead poisoning. “She became a midwife, learned the herbs from Lilinka... Lilinka and Maz. She made do. But part of why she wanted to return to Meath was to study, at a proper school of medicine.” He sighed wistfully. “And my father would have followed her to ends of the earthside realm, I think.”

Iris sat up, took Julian’s hands in hers – she leaned in and kissed him, soft, sweet, lingering. “Love does that.”

“It does, now?” Julian murmured against her lips, the tiniest smile lifting just one corner of his mouth. His hands found her hips, and she shifted so she was sitting in his lap, straddling him, his legs stretched long on the couch behind her, his back against the sagging armrest. “Tell me more.”

Iris chuckled, kissed him again, a little firmer this time. “It makes you crazy.” She whispered, voice low, playful. “Wild. You’ll do anything for that person. You’re obsessed.”

“Anything?” Julian couldn’t resist a raffish wink.

“Well.” Iris paused, batting her eyelashes. “Almost anything.”

“Tease.”

“Oh?” Her eyes sparkled and her fingertips traced the slope of his jaw, feather-light. “Do you have a request, Ilya?”

His eyelashes fluttered as he paused, head bowed, cheek pressed to her hair. “Just you, darling.”

“You have me.” Iris purred, and kissed him; it was hotter now, something stirred up, insistent and sad. The light was lengthening, cool to touch, warm to color, painting the weathered floorboards in orange and fuchsia, and Julian’s palm against her back was firm, firm and reverent, lips opening to the teasing swipe of her tongue. A sigh against her lips, low, soft, and Julian leaned back, let her press against him, her chest, her belly, her hips; she responded with a little roll of her hips, a little breathy gasp.

They kissed, and touched, Julian’s gentle, gentle hands tracing every inch of her he could reach, the valleys of her back, the rise of her ass, the slope of her shoulders, the give of her arms – Iris’s hands were wound in his hair, around his strong shoulders, down the firm of his bare chest. The night was somehow both hot and cool, the air sticky and fragrant with the sea, alive with the cries of cicadas and night-gulls, the rush and roll of the tide just out the door, but all Iris heard was Julian’s voice, the little noises he made, groans and whimpers.

His freckled cheeks were flushed as his arms wound around her, and he shifted, stood – she loved his quiet strength, the soft surety of his movements as he carried her up the narrow stairs to the loft. He sat her on the edge of the bed, kneeling between her legs, eyelashes fluttering and gray eyes starry as his fingertips ghosted against the hem of her swimsuit.

Iris leaned back on her elbows, voice liquid. “We have to be careful tonight, Ilya.”

Julian hummed knowingly, fingers catching in the jersey that covered her hips; he pressed a long, lingering kiss to the inside of her thigh, urging her legs further open. “I could spend all night here between your thighs…” His gaze fluttered up to hers, heavy, thumb gently stroking her through the fabric, making her shudder. “…if you let me.”

Still, she smirked, snorted, and let her shoulders drop into the bed. “We’d both be begging for it in the end.”

Julian’s fingertips dragged on Iris’s thighs as he pulled the tanga down – his breath was warm against her bare, slick skin, aroused since he had first started touching her, since before, when they’d played together in the sea, when he’d lounged in the sun, muscles glistening as the salt clung still to him, when she’d watched him change in this same sundrenched room. “I can be good.” He murmured, so quietly that Iris thought, at first, it was the murmur of the Persephia.

“Show me.” She crooned, fingers winding through his hair, their eyes meeting once more – Julian trembled, palms warm against her hips as he wet his lips and kissed her, right where she bloomed for him.

He went slow, explored, determined to draw out her pleasure – long, gentle strokes of his tongue, lapping into her like the tide; then playful swipes across her clit, just enough pressure to make her writhe; then languid swirls punctuated with suckling, all the while grasping her hips, caressing her thighs, groaning when she arched into his touch, smiling when she whimpered for him. The sun had slipped beneath the blanket of the sea when Iris came with a satisfied sigh, hardly a whisper, Julian’s face flushed between her clenched thighs. The second time, she moaned his name openly as he worked her to her edge, his fingers inside of her, groaning at each flutter of her sex. The third time, her cries were ragged, her entire body sizzling and silken and warm with overstimulation.

“No… no more, Ilya, _Ilya_…” Iris panted, head spinning. “I-I can’t…”

He relented with a satisfied chuckle as Iris’s legs quivered, twitching violently around him, his eyes twinkling as he met hers, hazy and blown. “You’re so beautiful, Iris.” He whispered, crawling forward on the bed, hovering over her as she moaned at the shift, his fingers still inside of her, relishing each little clench as she squirmed.

“Ilya, please, it’s too much…” She whimpered, and he shushed her, nudging his lips against her neck, kissing up, behind her ear, smoothing down her wild hair as he withdrew his fingers.

“Okay, I’ve got you, _draga_.” His arms slipped under her, cradling her close as she came down, dosing her with soft kisses on her cheeks, her eyelids, her neck, her shoulders.

His hips were pressed to hers, not insistently, but intimately, and Iris could feel the needy shudder of his breath as her own inhales and exhales leveled – she could feel the hardness, the heat, through his jersey shorts, pressed against her own slick. She groaned, softly, softly, and wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him into another drawn-out, heated kiss.

He met her, with restrained, hesitant rolls of his hips, with the press of his tongue against her lips – he still tasted of her, her arousal, her pleasure, and Iris moaned to feel the slip on his chin, his cheeks, under her fingers.

“I thought…” Julian whispered as he pulled away. “You wanted to be careful tonight?”

Iris took a shuddering breath, shook her head slightly. “The condom should be enough… just this time?”

He paused, but Iris could feel his cock twitch against her. “You’re sure, darling?” He murmured, and Iris nodded, fervently, certain, certain.

With one kiss to her lips, lingering, he peeled away; Iris heard shuffling as she let her head fall back onto the bed, waiting. Then he was between her legs again, hands smoothing down her thighs, ready to mount her - but she sat up, pressed her hands to his shoulders. Their gazes met as she guided him down onto his back, settling into the sagging mattress.

“Let me – ” She took the condom from him. “Let me take care of you.”

With a hushed little gasp, Julian watched, his hands still smoothing over the give of her thighs as she straddled him, rolled the condom slowly down his cock, twitching with anticipation. Sheathed, she stroked him, her palm slick with lubrication, like her own, and his eyes fluttered closed, his head falling back, neck long, beautiful, and creamy as he groaned, the sound low, low and needy.

Iris sank down, her hips pressed against his, his cock rubbing against her clit, still electric from orgasm. She teased him, rocking her warmth against him, relishing the delicious sounds he made as he waited for her, so good, so good, to give him what he craved. When she finally reached down and lined up, she smirked a little at the way he trembled, his eyes fluttering open to watch, to take in the sight of her guiding him inside, her mouth falling open at the welcome stretch, whining as she took all of him.

His hands tightened around her hips at the warmth, the liquid sweetness of her, and when she rocked against him, so slow, her hands behind her, steadying herself on his shaking thighs, he couldn’t help but sigh. He was enraptured with the sight of her, her lovely softness, the sweet seam of her waist cinching with each movement, her pillowy breasts bobbing gently, her sea-tangled hair wild and wavy down her back as she bowed back, neck long, rolling, with her pleasure.

She rode him, for how long neither could say, her hips slowly guiding them both to the precipice, Julian’s hands drifting over her body, cupping her breasts, smoothing over her belly, grabbing her ass. She was beautiful like this, skin painted in moonlight and shadows, glowing, darkening, with each little movement, with each little gasp, each little groan; Julian couldn’t wrench his eyes away, couldn’t stop the desperate mewls that rose from him. When she grasped his hand on her thigh and guided his fingers to her clit, he could have ascended at the way she arched, the way she cooed and whimpered, the way she squeezed him, the way her pace grew tempestuous, luscious.

Fingers swirling, practiced, against her pleasure, and then – then she was wracked with wildness, thrashing, convulsing, her fingernails digging into the meat of Julian’s thighs as her voice rose, choked, whining: “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Ilya, _Ilyaaa..._”

When her body relented, leaving her boneless, weightless, panting, reeling, she collapsed forward into Julian’s arms, still shaking as she curled into his chest, her breath ragged and tremulous.

“_Draga, draga moj..._” Julian moaned into her ear, his fingers threaded through her long, long hair as he thrust up into her, hips stuttering, already screaming for release, the delicious, unbearable sear of pleasure ripping through him, threatening to undo him completely. But he went slow, drawing it out, savoring Iris’s formless, mewing noises, forehead pressed to his neck as she shook, as he shook. When his orgasm finally, finally rushed through him, it was with a low moan of Iris’s name, his lips pressed to her crown, his nose flooded with the flowers-in-rain scent of her perfume, her soft soft mouth hot against his chest.

Then they were adrift, coiled together, lost in the sea’s rhythmic breath, the salt-tang of the ocean air and the human amber-musk of their lovemaking. Iris kissed his neck, his shoulders, the dense hair, richly scented, right over his hammering heart. Julian’s warm palm smoothed up and down Iris’s spine, the other brushing her hair out of her face, so he could watch her eyes sparkle, sparkle and settle as she looked up at him with that adorable, fucked-out smirk, just enough for the dimples on her cheeks to peek through.

“I love you.” Julian’s voice was barely a whisper, again almost swallowed by the sea, but Iris heard it, she heard it; she craned forward to kiss him, long and lingering.

“I love you too, darling.” She murmured in return, then whimpered as Julian pulled out of her with a roll of his hips. With another kiss, he guided her to her side, facing the little balcony, the indigo sea drenched in the warm, soft silver of the full moon. The bed groaned as he stood, padded away to discard the condom, but Iris barely heard as she watched the waves kiss the shore, the white-sand beach bathed a soft gray-blue in the night.

When Julian returned, when he draped his body behind Iris and wound his arms around her waist, slowly kissed each vertebrae of her neck, she was already half-asleep, eyelashes fluttering against her still-flushed cheeks. Even so, she melted into his arms with a little hum of happiness, leaning into his touch, the cool of his chest against her back, the slow whisper of his steady breath.

“I don’t want to go back.” She murmured, voice low. “Can we stay here forever?”

Julian’s lips turned in a soft, sad smile against her skin. “What a dream that would be.”

Iris was silent a moment, her sleepy gaze pointed at the sea. “We could, you know.”

“Hm?” Julian’s voice was velvety with almost-sleep, with bliss.

Iris inhaled shakily. “We don’t have to go back, Ilya. We could stay.” She turned back to him – his eyes were pointed downward, far away. “We could run.”

The air shifted around them, palpably -- suddenly chilly and thick, warped. Iris waited for Julian to respond, for his eyes to flit to hers with a warm twinkle, to brush it away with a gentle joke. It would have been easy, in the seconds that stretched to moments that stretched to – Iris didn’t know how long, only that her heart thrummed with each passing, unanswered beat – to fall asleep, to let it lay heavily between them until they awoke with the sun in the morning. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was so low, so soft, so broken. “We can’t, _draga_.”

“Why not?” Iris could feel her voice rising now, and Julian turned away, his cheek pressed now to the plane of her shoulder. “Now is our chance. They won’t know for three days. We could be halfway to Drakr by then. To Kirat, Busan. They’d never find us.”

“You don’t know Lucio’s mercenary friends.” Julian interjected sharply, suddenly, head rising, his gray eyes steely and sure. “I do. I worked for them. They tracked deserters and traitors halfway across the continent, dragged them back to camp just to have them drawn and quartered.” His lips were trembling, even as his grip tightened around her waist. “It would be a life on the run, Iris. Do you want to live like that?”

“Do you want to live like this?” Iris rolled over onto her back, her hands on his cheeks now. “Drinking to fall asleep, waking up with nightmares in the middle of the night? Exhausted during the day, no end to the plague in sight? Not knowing...” A hot tear rolled down her cheek. “Every day we’re still alive is a miracle. There are days where I don’t know if you’ll come back to me.”

A palm on her cheek, long thumb wiping away the tear, the tears that were falling now as Iris’s lips buckled. “I love you, Ilya, I want to be with you, I want to have a future with you…” She wept. “The palace is a nightmare, Lucio breathing down my neck, Nadia drunk all the time, the dungeons, having to smile and perform for spoiled royalty and aristocrats while the city crumbles around us… I’m so tired…”

Julian shushed her softly, arcing over her now. “I know, darling, I know, I know...” He whispered to her, kissing the corners of her eyes. “I’m tired, too. And...” His eyes flitted away, for only a moment – he was shaking. “I’m terrified. For you.. every day, darling... what he did to you…” His fingertips just grazed her neck.

Iris caught his hand, fingers interlacing with his. “He’s left me alone, at the very least. Since then.” Still, her stomach shook as she took in a slow, sour breath. “For how long, I don’t know.”

“I know.” Julian murmured, his forehead coming to rest on Iris’s, the weight of him over her comfortable, warm. “I want to protect you, Iris. I want to be with you, for whatever the future holds.” What came next was a long, shuddering sigh. “But I can’t turn my back on this. What kind of doctor would I be if I…?”

“You can’t save everyone.” Iris cooed, her hand smoothing up his back to his neck. “I know it kills you, Ilya.”

He closed his eyes, his expression a study of pain. “I have to try.”

Iris was silent a long time, leaning into the cool palm on her cheek, her lip trembling. “Even if it means we can’t have that future?”

“Iris...” His voice caught in his throat, his eyes vibrating over her face, her tears. “I want that more than anything. I want a future with you, I...” He blushed, furiously. “I want a family with you. I want to be… be yours, for whatever comes next. But –”

“We could have that future. We could have that future now.” Iris whispered, desperately. “We have everything we need… to make that future, right now.”

Julian’s eyes flew wide, before his brows furrowed – he arced up over her, lips parted in confusion. “What?” He whispered softly.

“We could...” Iris was blushing now, so, so aware of the heat of his hips over hers, the gentle, curious stirring of his cock against her crooked thigh – she felt herself tremble, an unfamiliar rush of wanting surging through her, hot and wild, spiraling uncontrollably. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words, the sound dying in the back of her throat; she could only roll her hips against his, the silk of her sex wet and warm against his cock.

He gasped quietly, hardly more than an inhale, his sea-gray eyes hazy, with confusion, with a tentative spark of desire, with a quiet, barely-there hope. “Iris… no, we – we shouldn’t…”

“This is what we want, isn’t it? What we both want?” Iris whispered, both her hands in his hair now – he shivered as she raked her fingernails gently over his scalp, pushing his wild hair out of his eyes. “What _you_ want. I know you would never ask outright, but…” She smiled, just a little. “We can have this, Ilya. _You_ can have this. You deserve it.”

“What about...” He took another tremulous breath as Iris gently rocked her hips against his, slowly stroking him – he was fully hard again, his body straining towards hers, but his gaze was so, so sad, so confused. “What about Asra?”

Iris’s heart clenched, and she bit her lip – she didn’t cry often for him now, not anymore, even with what she knew… but she still felt the nervous flutter in her throat as the images rushed to her, his snowy hair, his dimples when he smiled, his hand in hers as walked through the forest, laughing, laughing. “What about him?”

“You… you let him go because you wanted to stay.” Julian kissed the underside of Iris’s arm, his eyes hazy. “You would leave now?”

Iris shook her head, so, so very imperceptibly. “Things changed. The plague changed, the palace changed. I…” She swallowed, heavily, and then her eyes were misty again. “He’s not coming back, Ilya. And… I love you. I love you and we’re here, together, now. But we can have the rest of it, too.” She bit her lip, and looked away, cheeks pinking – the sea was still breathing, softly, softly, lapping against the shore like a child at their mother’s breast.

“_Draga moj. Svjetlo moga života._” Julian’s lips were against her ear, so warm, breath cool as he inhaled softly. “You’re sure? Are we really doing this?”

She turned back to him, lips parted, still rosy and swollen from before, her upturned brows, her sparkling eyes. “I’m sure, Ilya. Please.”

Julian kissed her in response, his breath shaky against her lips – his hands wrapped around her arms, guiding her hands to rest above her head, their fingers threading together. His tongue slipped into her mouth, searched, questioning, for hers – they met, swirled, soft, sweet, gentle, until they were gasping, breathless. Julian relented for only a moment, to whisper, “If we do this, there’s no going back, Iris.”

“I don’t want to go back.” Iris replied, squeezing his fingers, craning her chin toward him, begging, begging, for more. "Please, Ilya. Please."

One kiss, gentle, lingering, their lips still nudged together when Julian rolled his hips against Iris’s, his cock sliding between her silken lips. He groaned, so quietly, at the feel of her, the little smile that slipped across her lips as she wrapped her legs around his waist. At the change of angle, the little shift, with the next roll, he caught, tip just pressing against her give.

“Iris...” He gasped, heat rushing to his cheeks, suddenly overwhelmed – he’d never felt her like this before, nothing to come between the two of them. “I… Oh, _draga_...” His voice bled into a low, ecstatic moan, their eyes meeting – her mouth falling open, panting in anticipation, in desperation, her pupils blown wide, so beautiful, so needy. Their eyes locked, gazes never breaking, and he pressed in.

Iris whined at the sensation – it was so familiar, still Julian, still his body, yet so different. Hotter, softer, more intimate, overwhelmingly intimate. His movements were languid, cautious, even though they had just made love, her sex still relaxed and aroused; he sank in inch by slow inch with each careful movement of his hips, kissing her wide mouth with each thrust, each press.

Then – they were flush against each other, he was all the way inside her, the fullness, the stretch exquisite. He groaned, gripped her hands tighter, his mouth was on her neck, his nose in her hair as he trembled. “Gods, Iris...” He murmured into her ear, his breath hot and needy as he set his pace, tender and languid.

And Iris drank in everything, the way his skin felt against hers, the beautiful flexing of his arms, his muscular back, the way he stroked that delicious bloom inside of her, the pants, the gasps, the whispers of her name, the fragments of his mother tongue. She was moving, too, meeting his thrusts with slow rolls of her hips, cooing, crooning, crying out when a particularly delicious pang of pleasure surged through her. She felt drunk, she felt miraculously light and deliciously heavy, this was how it should be, him and her, nothing else, together –

He reared up, their gazes meeting again – his eyes were so dark, pupils fully blown, as he looked at her, watching the way she arched for him, the way she whimpered and writhed, Iris could hardly stand it, it was like he was looking into her, her very soul, stripping her bare, barer than she’d ever been with him. Then the images rushed to her, the images that flooded him as he imagined that future, the future that they both desperately wished for –

He saw her, moments from now, her cheeks and chest flushed from orgasm, looking at him with nothing but pure, unadulterated love – but he wasn’t looking at her face, he was looking between her trembling, open thighs, where his cum wept from her sex, puffy, luscious, from their lovemaking. He saw himself standing behind her, his hands over her belly, just barely showing, her hands over his, as they stood in the threshold of a house just like this, just enough, the little kitchen, the little table, the little bedrooms. He saw her sleeping in their shared bed, hand comfortably draped over her pregnant belly, his breath stolen by the way the moonlight painted her in silver, a fertile goddess, his fertile goddess.

She saw herself in labor, flushed with pain, but he was holding her hand, rubbing her shoulders, smoothing down her sweat-drenched hair, murmuring encouragements, love, worship, into her ear. He saw her breastfeeding their child, she was glowing, so beautiful, so beautiful that Julian was crying, crying as he held their son for the first time. He saw her, the babe slung safely around her front, stocking the shelves of their little apothecary and clinic, helping patients, crafting potions, all while cooing at their child. He saw her rocking the boy to sleep, singing gently to him in her lovely voice. He saw little footprints in the sand, children toddling, playing in the surf, as Iris looked on, her skin tan, long hair ruffled by the sea breeze, hand shielding her eyes from the sun. She looked to him, smiled that gorgeous, dimpled smile, and reached for his hand, holding it tight. She was pregnant again.

Then, it all changed – she saw fire, the little house by the sea burning. She saw her and him, stowed in the belly of a ship, she was throwing up in a bucket, miserable even as he rubbed her back, held her close. She was wrapped in loose clothing, trying to hide her belly as they bartered for safe passage with a traveling merchant crew. She was giving birth in a rough-spun tent, there was blood everywhere, she was screaming with pain. She was crying, the baby was crying, he wouldn’t latch no matter what they tried. More screaming, more blood, fire, sweat-soaked mercenaries cutting down the fleeing merchants, Iris’s hands bound behind her back as she was wrenched away from him, her breasts leaking as their child cried – the baby was in Lucio’s arms, his sickened eyes flashing wildly to Julian as he grinned wickedly –

“No, no –” Julian whimpered, and Iris cried out at the loss as he pulled out of her, just as he arched his back and shuddered, groaned; he was coming on Iris’s stomach, her breasts, as her hands flew to his cheeks to catch his tears, her eyes soft with understanding, with compassion.

“I’m sorry...” He cried as the last spasm of pleasure faded from him, as his face crumpled. “I can’t, I can’t, I – I made a mess of you –”

“No, no darling, it’s okay, it’s okay...” She cooed, pulling him down to her and kissing his hair as he shuddered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s okay.”

She held him as he wept, until he fell asleep crumpled in her arms.

*******

When Iris awoke the next morning, she was alone, the sheet and blanket wrapped tenderly around her shoulders. The light was pale and quiet, the color of nothing – the sun hadn’t quite risen, and yet the beach house was awash in the gentle, familiar utility of morning, the scent of coffee, her robe laid out on the little chair for her, a gesture that wrung Iris’s heart as she rose with a stretch.

She threw the robe on as she plodded carefully down the stairs, rubbing the restless sleep from her eyes. There was a cup of coffee waiting for her on the table, light and creamy – she smiled wobbily – and the wide Franc doors were thrown open to the beach, the almost-dawn air salty and soft. It was there she found Julian, sitting on the sandy edge of the deck, his lithe body hunched forward, the sea urchin shell between his fingers as he absentmindedly sipped his own coffee.

He didn’t startle when Iris gently placed her hand on his bare shoulder, nor did he look to her. “Good morning.” He murmured, and didn’t protest when she sat down next to him, pulling her legs up to her chest, but he didn’t move to kiss her, to lean into her, either.

They were silent for a long moment, uncertain – the only sound was the gentle rustling of the sea, the quiet cries of the gulls. Iris sighed very softly as she took a sip of her coffee. “I’m sorry, Ilya.” She whispered. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Oh, _draga_.” He muttered – his arm was around her shoulders, pulling her closer, even as he still couldn’t look at her. “I know. I’m sorry, too.”

“Why?” She murmured – already, already, her eyes were growing misty. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I – it wasn’t fair. I wasn’t being fair.”

At this, Julian laughed, so, so softly, turning to her, pressing his cheek into her soft hair. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that bodies aren’t logical.” His long, sweet sigh ruffled against her scalp. “Your body wanted something you didn’t even know you wanted yet.”

“It still wasn’t fair.” Iris’s cheeks were hot, even as she clung to his back, drawing him closer, closer. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“You wanted it.” He murmured softly. “Your body wanted it, and your heart wanted to run.” His lips were nudging against her temple now, he was inhaling the scent of her sleep. “I’m sorry, _draga_. I want all of it, too, I do. But I can’t… I can’t give it to you. Not yet.”

Iris tried to smile, only for her lips to crumple; she buried her face in his shoulder and breathed in slowly, slowly, slowly, seven counts in, seven counts out. “So what do we do now, Ilya?” She finally managed, her voice breaking piteously.

“I don’t know.” His breath was warm in her hair, and his voice was quiet, raspy. “We enjoy this, I guess. And then… we go back. We go back.”

“We go back and fight.” Iris said, so suddenly it surprised her. “We fight for that future.”

Warmth on her skin – Julian’s hands on her cheeks, guiding her face up to his. “We go back...and we fight.” He murmured, so softly it was like he didn’t believe it. “For our future.”

“That’s all we can do.” Iris found her hands on his cheeks too, thumbs resting on the jut of his cheekbones, fingers under his jaw – a rush, a rush of a thing that broke her heart, the memory of the body – and she leaned in to kiss him, heated, gentle, needy.

Just beyond them, the sun painted the world in its certain gold, and the sea murmured in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOC: 
> 
> ...how's quarantine treating y'all? Bringing up some ish? 
> 
> .....................Me too. 
> 
> I hope all of you are safe, and loved, and finding ways to nurture your light.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like arcana memes, pictures of pretty clothes, and advice that no one asked for, or you just want to yell at me (same, dude) come hang out with me at [motherofqups](https://motherofqups.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
